


Child of the Spider

by afterdungeons (afterandalasia)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, D&D Character Backstory, Drow (Dungeons and Dragons), Gen, Gender Related, I've only had this character for a session and a half, Manipulative Relationship, Matriarchal society, Nonbinary Character, Self-Indulgent, Siblings, Societal Third Gender, Worldbuilding, but if anything happened to them I would Spirit Guardians everyone in this room and then myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterdungeons
Summary: D&D character backstory snippets, written in a more prosey and clearer fashion than is ever likely to make it into roleplay. Because you know how sometimes, you just really, really get into a character? Yeah.Bryn is a drow, but they aren't very good at it. Daunted by politics and social engineering, lacking the religious devotion of their kin, and too easily led by others, they would have been a footnote in the family's history even with the leading hand of their ambitious older sister Lledrith. But after an attempt to flee the city with their life intact led them into the clutches of the fae, their life ended up taking a very different turn.
Kudos: 3





	1. Youth (16-88), Unstated Time

**Author's Note:**

> I have carefully read _Drow of the Underdark_ , _Menzobarrenzan: City of Intrigue_ , and _Underdark_ (by Heinsoo and Collins), aaaand then have cut them into pieces and put things back together in a different way.
> 
> The setting in which this campaign is set uses strictly the Celtic pantheon (with the exception of our warlock and his Deep Ones), so the drow have been given the Cult of the Morrigan as their Chaotic Evil religious stream. The DM also wanted to incorporate a system where non-binary individuals would be included, so I have gone with a society with an established "third gender". Things are still pretty shit for that third gender, but they're shit for all genders (though female less than male or non-binary) so gender issues are, at the very least... different. Aaaand the DM is not really using canon drow naming structures, but there's a sort of picture of Eladrin, Celtic names, and spider-based surnames because who doesn't love some spiders.
> 
> These are likely just going to be ficlets for me to flesh out my character's backstory, and probably out of chronological order at that.
> 
> My character is Bryn (short for Barandryn), known in their childhood as Raen, a non-binary drow who... fails at being a drow. Charisma is their dump stat, they end up worshipping the wrong deity, and they really weren't all that good at taking joy in causing pain for the glory of the Morrigan. After an attempt on their life left them desperate to leave the city of Menzoberranzan, an unwise deal stuck them in the fae realm for a period of time which they really aren't sure about before they, and several others, managed to wrest their way back to consciousness.
> 
> The other major player in this is Bryn's older sister, Lledrith, known in her childhood as Ael. She is a proper high-charisma, high-ambition drow, and Bryn's obsessively (desperately) close relationship with her shaped both of their early lives.
> 
> May end up having snippets from the roleplay, reimagined into prose.
> 
> Because who wouldn't love a drow that will stand their ground in front of a mammoth but run away from a thankyou hug from a teenage girl?

The brightness of the faerie fire over Qu’ellarz’ol showed that the parties there were more intense than usual. Sitting on the roof of the house, Raen could just about hear the occasional snatches of music when the faint wind turned in the right direction.

The parties were beautiful, Ael said. Opulent. Decadent. She spoke with light in her eyes and yearning on her tongue when she talked about them. Raen had to admit, the dance of the faerie fire made them look beautiful, especially over the soft glow from the fungi of Kyorbblivvin.

Sitting cross-legged and watching the dance of the colours, they almost missed the soft sound behind them, but a huff of breath told them who it was and Raen turned with a smile.

“Aren’t we getting a little old for this?” said Ael, rolling elegantly up to her knees. She brushed her hand against her thigh, and her stern look only lasted a few seconds before her own wicked smile slid into place. “Climbing on the roof like we did when we were children?”

“Like you taught me to do,” Raen reminded her.

Ael moved to sit beside them, arranging her mycostrand skirt about her crossed legs. She had already put her jewellery aside for her night’s trance, Raen noted, wrists and throat bare, but still wore the halter-necked top and slit skirt of the day. Ael slipped off her shoes and flexed her feet to a dancer’s pointe, with a soft groan.

“Hard practice?”

Ael was a good dancer. Far better than Raen, at least, and good enough that she had persuaded their grandmother that she should learn dances more suited to the illiyitrii of the Great Houses than to the nedeirra to which their house would usually be considered more suited. It would cost coin, but Ael had sweetly said that some day she, first daughter of a first daughter, might be the one treating with the Great Houses for the right to drink and serve shadowdrupe wine, and it had been enough.

For reply, Ael looked Raen over for a moment, then turned and uncrossed her legs again to place her feet in Raen’s lap pointedly.

Raen laughed, smile softening, and ran their hands gently over Ael’s ankles before setting to the more careful task of massaging her feet. Though it had been a long time since Ael had twitched away from the pain of bruises, Raen still knew to check gently for them before pressing too hard. “Mistress Thomisidae did not find fault enough to reach for her cane today, then?” They said.

Ael curled and uncurled her toes, then signed as Raen set to work with gentle, practiced fingers. “Not for three weeks now. She’s been trying to drive me to misstep, but it’s still not working. Looks like our practice is paying off.”

“More your practice than mine,” said Raen wryly. They could follow the basic steps of the dance, provide Ael with a partner to follow, but it was well beyond them to keep up with all of the moves that she made or keep track of the music she must have been replaying in her head. Their thumb found a sore point on Ael’s foot, and gently worked into it. “If I’d known you planned to join me, I’d have bought oil for this.”

“If I’d cared for it, I could have bought it myself,” Ael reminded them, though there was still no sharpness there. “You shouldn’t make offers like that for people, Raen. They’ll only take advantage of you.”

For a moment, they let their silence be an acknowledgement, until Ael lounged back to rest on her elbows. Finally, Raen risked a glance again, to confirm that Ael did not look at all angry. “Only for you,” they said, finally.

Ael’s smile had the wicked beauty of the highest houses. “There is a reason you are my favourite sibling,” she said.

The warmth in her voice was like a light in the depths of darkness. Or like stars – Raen had read about stars, heard about them, but wondered whether pictures really did them justice. Surface poets certainly seemed quite obsessed with them.

Ael’s smile would do, though. Smiles were a rare enough thing even within a family that still had good ties, that was not beset with strife. They had one older brother still living, nearly two hundred now, a brother lost to disease in childhood and a third brother killed by elves in a fight during a patrol not long after he came of age. Raen knew that their mother would have been pushed from her status were it not for her whip-sharp mind, but the fact that she only had one living daughter of six children born bought out bursts of fury against both Keroliban and, even though they did not want the position of secondboy within the family, Raen.

Their aunts whispered that she had never been the same, since Kei’s death, but nobody dared to say it aloud. The loss of a first daughter was a horror to most mothers, and hearing Ael, barely twenty, and Raen, even younger, give grim and explicit testimony must have been even worse.

They sat in silence for a while, as Raen’s deft fingers worked through the muscles of Ael’s feet. Ael had teased them before that they would do well to do such for a living; before anyone else, Raen would have laughed away the suggestion, but to Ael they admitted that they did not wish for the intimacy with strangers that working in one of the massage parlours would bring. Ael had regarded them curiously, then run a gentle hand down their jaw. Even as they approached thirty, Raen could not say they understood some of the things their sister said.

“One day, Raindrop,” said Ael, voice low and longing as she watched the lights over Qu’ellarz’ol. “One day, we’ll be there.”

Raen’s hands hesitated only for a moment as the warmth of Ael’s name for them, _only_ Ael’s, slid melodic over them. They had never heard other members of their family use such names for each other, only their positions within the family or their true names given or chosen. It was not even truly a name, after all.

“Theys wasn’t at lessons today,” Ael said after a moment, lips twisting into a more wicked smirk. Raen preferred the softer smile she kept for them, but had to admit that both suited her equally well. “I hear that she got caught in her dalliance with Inaroris’s last favourite.”

Internally, Raen winced, though they did not let the expression show. Inaroris’s last favourite had been the subject of more than enough rumours himself, a son of a fading Major House rumoured to have been loose in his affections since before he had even been presented as an adult. Affections that he had kept to other youths, to be fair, but it had hardly been good for the reputation of his House that he had been so publicly known for such deportment. Raen had heard the rumours even without them coming from Ael, which meant she must have heard plenty more.

“Everyone knows Inaroris was fickle in her favour,” continued Ael. She was audibly pleased, a spider with its prey already dying and enrobed in silk, no more fight left to come. “But if Carffir was fool enough to bow to her interest straight away… bah, he probably did not expected her to take him to House immediately.”

She paused, and Raen realised her eyes were scanning their face. She did like to test how much they knew of the gathering politics, they knew that much. It was well-meant, essentially in a city as socially claustrophobic as Menzoberranzan. “Matron Keridwyn was not known for her fondness of him,” Raen offered.

“She is not known for her fondness of anyone,” Ael retorted, but her smirk had not left her.

Though Raen struggled with the social webs that Ael easily felt the tremors of, there was one thing which both of them had realised young, and that was that their grandmother’s favour had to prevail over all. Raen had settled for competence and usefulness, but they knew that Ael had far bigger ambitions both within and outside the family.

“Still, I didn’t expect her to want rid of him so quickly. Though I suppose this will be more associated with Nortanapis, and not with Apelamia. I wonder if he’ll be set to service or given to the Morrigan for his disfavour.”

“He doesn’t sound like a sacrifice the Morrigan would much appreciate,” said Raen. Carffir had never taken to the Melee, had not been favoured in battle-learnings, and had generally been unskilled in anything befitting his House.

“Who knows? He might last longer under the Morrigan’s talons than he did in Inaroris’s favour. If the rumours are true, he had some predilections in that area anyway,” she added cheekily.

There were always rumours of that sort about some drow or another, most often about males. Female or trysbrid drow earned such rumours more rarely; females because people were more scared of being caught gossiping, trysbrid drow because it was apparently less entertaining. Raen hoped they never managed to acquire such rumours, although they had a sneaking feeling that Ael would be amused by them.

“Any rumours of Theys’s punishment?” said Raen. They ran a few final thumb-strokes down the arch of Ael’s foot.

“She’s only two years from adult. Inaroris isn’t one to let a slight go unpunished, though, I’m sure she’ll be pushing for a public punishment.”

Public events were always more… physical. Raen made a mental note to check that their boots, and Ael’s, would be well-sealed against any blood in the streets. The plateaus west of the Clawrift made for an imposing position from which to show the briefer public punishments; anything that would require days would be in the caverns of the Church of the Morrigan, with only the final acts of execution, timed to perfection by the experienced practitioners of pain who were entrusted with sacrifice, in public.

“If Inaroris has any sense, she’ll see to it that Theys never dances again,” said Ael, tone casual though her words had clear thought behind them. Raen tried not to wonder how many people Ael had thought of appropriate punishments for. “Everyone knows that Theys is at her best when dancing. Let people see how much less charming her tongue is than her feet.”

Ael would make for a dangerous enemy, Raen had known for many years. As important as keeping their grandmother’s favour, as far as Raen was concerned, was keeping Ael’s.

“What would you take from me, then?” said Raen. They settled Ael’s feet on their lap, and folded their hands on top.

Ael’s smile softened back again to the one that Raen preferred to see. “You have too many little drops of skill to get them all, my Raindrop. I’d have to take your head to take them all. But that would mean giving you up to the Morrigan, and I do not think her House hungers for Eresidae blood just yet.”

Hard as it was to be sure whether it was flattery or truth, Bryn let themselves believe at least for a while that it was true. They sat together and watched the faerie fire dance, and for a while, at least, it felt like something close to peace.


	2. Age 16

A lunge, and the rapier skidded off Raen’s shield, so close that for a moment they could have sworn they could see the shadow of their reflection in the blade. They pushed it further aside with the leather shield’s hardened edge, then pulled the shield back sharply to catch the second incoming blade. They felt more than heard the impact, and slashed into the gap with their own rapier. It caught Hersa’s side, and he cried out in surprise before turning it to a growl.

“Hersa, you have only yourself to blame,” said Weaponmaster Echmedrin. “You have two swords. Raen has one shield. Does the spider use only one of her fangs?”

This time, Hersa’s twin slashes had a more irregular, unpredictable rhythm. Raen caught the first on their shield, but had to twist away from the second, gritty black sand scouring at the soles of their feet.

“Good!” their Weaponmaster said. She prowled around them, watching closely. “Seek her favour with your blade.”

Hersa was years older than Raen, had aspirations of Melee-Magthere before the next year was through, but the pale fabric they both wore to better display any drawing of blood was unblemished on Raen’s skin. Hersa only had two nicks, barely enough to need stitching, but Raen could see the anger growing behind his eyes at the thought of being outmatched by his younger, slighter cousin.

It was never a skill that Raen had sought to cultivate. But in their teens they had found themselves taller, and with a longer reach, than any of their cousins, and however much Hersa had once taunted them for picking up a shield instead of two blades it had not served them poorly.

Raen saw the angry bunching of Hersa’s jaw, and feinted another blow but knew that they were about to face an onslaught. They stepped round to put more clear space behind them, not a wall against which they could be pinned, and drew to mind the shape of the ground and where it would be safest to let their feet fall.

Hersa attacked in a rush, blows stronger than ever against Raen’s shield, coming in fast from angle after angle. Raen dropped all hope of offence, rapier limp beside them, concentrating on the movements of their feet and in keeping the shield across their torso and upper thighs. One blade caught their arm, ripping the fabric but somehow not catching skin, and Hersa gave another snarl of fury and slammed against the shield.

It threw Raen backwards; they cried out, staggered, but somehow got their feet beneath themselves again. They had been turned around, they realised, but did not have time to get in more than an ineffectual slash before Hersa bore down upon them again.

“Give up, you useless child,” Hersa hissed. “There’s no want for you anyway.”

Taunts were only to be expected, of course, and Raen knew better than to believe them just because they were spoken. But it was easiest to summon taunts that were meant, and they knew just as well that his mother had the two daughters she needed, had a son already, did not have much need for them in their small House. Their grandmother forgot their name, if they were not at Ael’s side.

But it was anger that Hersa wanted, not disappointment. And that, Raen found much easier to control.

They felt the pattern of Hersa’s attacks becoming more regular again, and with a sharp step and blow of their shield broke it. It opened up Hersa’s chest, and Raen saw for a heartbeat that they could drive the sword home, pierce right through Hersa’s chest to open up their lungs and blood, and it would only earn them praise. To murder a member of one’s House was of course not done, but if in sparring or training one overreached then…

If Hersa even made it into Melee-Magthere, Raen doubted that he would survive the first year.

Instead, Raen let their wrist turn into the blow. The rapier skimmed up, sharpened distal edge slitting through Hersa’s clothing and skin alike to open a long shallow gash from his sternum flicking up towards his shoulder. Blood ran fast from the wound, draping like fallen spider legs down the white fabric, and for a split second Raen froze.

They weren’t sure whether they had meant to do less, or worse. But for a moment their heart thundered in their ears and they hesitated in a way that they had known since childhood they never should.

Steel flashed. Raen tried to duck, but the blunt proximal half of the blade still struck them about the temple, and the world flashed too bright. They swung with their shield and a wordless shout, and were shocked to see Hersa’s offhand blade knocked aside, bloodied tip glinting on the sand.

Hersa slammed his forearm into Raen’s throat, and Raen saw the death-rage in their cousin’s eyes. They let their feet go from under them, releasing their shield to pull Hersa down to the ground as well. It hurt on their shoulder, but they at least knew the fall was coming; they saw Hersa’s head slam against the black sand surface and heard him give a choked sound.

Weaponmaster Echmedrin took a careful half-step out of the way, watching without speaking as they both, presumably, performed to her standards.

The reprieve barely lasted a moment, though; for all his arrogance, and for all that he would not be fit for Melee-Magthere, Hersa would not have made it to nineteen if he were weak. In a breath he was on top of Raen, one hand on their throat, other hand drawing back the rapier.

He shouldn’t have drawn back. Even Raen knew that. Hersa could have ended the fight in one slash – even just by firmly blooding Raen, enough for them to have good reason to cede. But drawing back cost a precious few seconds, and that was a few seconds too many.

The knife from Weaponmaster Echmedrin’s boot was already in Raen’s left hand. They brought it straight up to Hersa’s neck, letting the sliver-sharp edge break the skin to spill more blood.

It dripped down onto Raen’s chin as Hersa froze. Fear flashed through his eyes, enough to quench the anger there, as Raen saw him realise that Raen could drive the knife home before he would have time to strike.

“Yield,” Raen croaked.

Hersa blinked.

The blood on Raen’s chin was hot and sticky, and they could feel it starting to trickle along the line of their jaw. “I yield,” they repeated.

Weaponmaster Echmedrin clapped her hands, then when that did not earn a response grabbed Hersa by the shoulder to haul him upright instead. He turned to her with a flash of anger again, and she drove her gauntleted fist into his gut, doubling him over. “They yielded,” she said, crisply. “You are in my training ground, Hersa. You follow my rules.”

Heart still racing, Raen pulled themselves up to a sitting position, keeping their lips carefully closed against the feel of their cousin’s blood turning to trace in new directions. They could feel a throbbing bruise building on the left side of their head, and could feel the sting of cuts, but nothing major. The blood from Hersa’s chest was still spreading across the white of his sparring shirt.

“Pathetic,” Weaponmaster Echmedrin continued. Raen looked up, expecting it to be aimed at them where they still sat on the ground clutching her dagger. But her eyes were firmly on Hersa. “You seek Melee-Magthere, when your kin of barely two turns of the spider’s web can best you twice in one bout? This,” she gestured to his wound, “should have been a killing blow. Raen, get to your feet.”

Raen did so, carefully as the world threatened to lurch around them. Weaponmaster Echmedrin looked them up and down, then took back her knife.

“You pulled the blow. Your cousin is lucky you have more loyalty to your House than he does. Hersa,” she turned back. “You will remain with me for the rest of the day. _I_ do not pull my blows. You had best do better. Raen?”

They stilled midway through raising their arm to wipe the blood from their cheek. Her cool grey-blue eyes looked them up and down.

“Yes, Weaponmaster?” They hazarded.

“Pull blows against your kin, if you think it is for the strength of the House. But do not be foolish enough to think you can do so against your enemies.”

“I understand, Weaponmaster.”

Weaponmaster Echmedrin looked somewhere behind Raen, but Raen’s first glance was to Hersa to be sure that he did not intend to restart their fight. Only when he was sure the young man was also looking did Raen turn to see the approaching figure of Ael, clad in rich red and gleaming black.

Ael looked them both over in turn as she approached, then turned straight to their aunt. The youngest of their mother’s sisters, she was not much older than the eldest of Raen’s siblings, and might yet earn herself enough favour with their grandmother to have children of her own. Her dedication to the blade, however, rather suggested that she had accepted her lot in life and her role in the family.

Still, Ael was all polite respect as she showed her bare hands and clear wrists, no sleeves in which to secrete a weapon. “Honoured Weaponmaster,” she said. “Raen’s presence is requested by our Matron Mother.”

A request which nobody could question, let alone refuse.

Weaponmaster Echmedrin nodded. “Go get cleaned up,” she said to Raen, who bowed their head and finally dared finish wiping the blood from their chin. Their normal clothes were still folded neatly inside, and one of the slaves would see to the sparring garb with the specially-bred oozes that devoured the blood without harming the fabric. “You are keeping up with your practice, I trust, Ael?”

“Of course, Weaponmaster,” said Ael. Raen paused at the doorway, looking back to see their sister picking up one of the light crossbows arrayed near to the entrance and loading it with a casual grace. “As each spider has her fangs, so ought each drow be able to protect herself.”

She took casual aim at the targets opposite and fired. The bolt slammed into the bullseye of the first, and Hersa flinched. Ael reloaded and fired three more times in quick succession, leaving a fist-tight grouping in the grey ring.

The look which Ael gave Hersa was almost casual, but Raen knew what it really meant. Declaring herself to the family as female while still young meant that Ael would never be considered for the Melee-Magthere, and she did not have the desire to pursue the Church of the Morrigan. But she had been forward in her ambition even before… the events… that had left her their mother’s only daughter. She had more than enough skills to protect herself on all fronts.

It was not about Ael this time, though. It was the same warning look that Ael had given Hersa when they were children and three years had given him an easy physical strength over Raen, but Ael’s five years more had kept his anger at bay. He might be her cousin, but Raen was her sibling, and she would not hesitate to punish him should he try to threaten them.

The older Raen got, the more that they had expected such warnings to end, but the more it seemed Ael found threats around them both.

Perhaps Raen should have pulled some more of their strikes, they thought, but then doubtless Weaponmaster Echmedrin would have called them out for cowardice. Unlike the fight itself, that was something that Raen had no idea how to win.

As Weaponmaster Echmedrin began tearing into Hersa again for his poor performance in the fight, Raen hurried inside lest they make themselves a visible target for more of Hersa’s anger. There was nothing that should need stitching, at least, and if they could brush the sand from their hair then little would remain of that injury but an aching head.

They changed quickly, folded up their clothes, and bade a hurried but polite farewell to Weaponmaster Echmedrin. They knew she would not mind when Matron Mother Dumaesa’s say was behind it.

As they walked away, a half-pace behind Ael, they heard the sound of metal on flesh and winced. Hersa would pay dearly for his mistakes that day.

“Grandmother called for me?” they said, once they were out of earshot. They did not mean for it to sound so incredulous, but all things considered and away from the adrenaline of the training ring it was beginning to feel… unlikely.

Ael smirked. “She said I could call you if I wished. And… I wished. Looked like I missed quite a round of sparring.”

“The first few weren’t too bad,” said Raen. Their chin still felt sticky, even if nothing was there when they rubbed at it. “That last round got…”

“You should keep it up, little sibling,” Ael said, before Raen even had the chance to pause for too long. They wondered whether she had known already that they would not be able to put good words around it. “You have more skill than Hersa ever will.”

“I’m sure Hersa will bring strength and power to our House,” Raen said, words automatic, if slightly mumbled.

Ael’s silence had a pointed feel as they made their way across the compound. “We will see how he fares in the role he has chosen for himself,” she replied.

Hersa died within three months of entering Melee-Magthere. None of the House seemed to be particularly surprised.

“At least it was in sparring, and not in disgrace,” said Ael, once she and Raen were alone in her room. “I feared he would do something foolish and bring embarrassment on the whole House.”

The thought of Hersa’s body, wrapped in webbing and strapped outside their property, made Raen shudder. They had no scars from any of the times they had fought Hersa, but knew that the ugly twisting scar on Hersa’s shoulder had not even had time to finish settling by the time he died.

“You need to be either extremely strong or extremely weak to be memorable, Raindrop,” said Ael. Her hairpins clicked one by one into their bowl. “So we had best be the former.”

“I have a feeling you will be more memorable than me,” Raen replied.

At least, at that, Ael laughed.


	3. Youth, mid-30s

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General note that "Master" here is being used to represent a drow word that is totally gender-neutral. It is just the term of address all slaves are expected to use for drow.
> 
> There's uh, yeah, a lot of talk about drow and slavery in this chapter, and it's all coming from the POV of someone who has totally grown up within that normality. Raen at least thinks better of them than certain other family members that we see. So, uh, warning for everything _that_ entails.

When Raen had been a child, they remembered taking a small measure of pride in actually having seen, and touched, real wood. It was so rare in the Underdark that, Raen knew, most Minor Houses and even many of the Major Houses would not have access to it. But the oak barrels in the basement of House Eresidae were essential to their Houses’s trade, and Bryn had seen a slave beaten severely for so much as damaging the thick wood.

The two grimlocks that they now had better learned to fear the whip. They were ideal for the heavywork of the winemaking process, though they lacked the nimble fingers needed for the processing of the shadowdrupe, which inevitably needed not only goblins or kobolds but multiple members of the family to oversee them. By the time the harvest was done, the goblins or kobolds would usually have either died or become such a nuisance that they were sold or given as sacrifice. It at least kept peace for the rest of the year.

Another advantage was the quiet. There was no need to put up with incessant chatter or try to keep control of grimlocks, who preferred quiet, and it made it easier to give the Undercommon orders that they followed.

It had been a quiet day, on the whole, the grimlock working through his assigned task of emptying out the storage solution from the barrels and preparing them to be used for the sourdrupe wine again. He had even learned that if he smelled something strange about a barrel, it could earn him a reward, and though Raen would also have to look over the barrels they knew that the grimlock’s nose was almost as good a check by itself.

Quicker, too, truth be told, but Raen would never dare say as much to their mother. A drow’s eyes always had to be the last ones to confirm whether something was acceptable.

Making correct use of the steeped mosses that were used to clean the delicate valves of the barrel press, however, was another matter altogether. Handling them would leave Raen’s hands sore for days, had drawn blood the first year they had done the work and not been fast enough with it, but that had only earned them punishment for bloodying the solution such that the whole job had to be redone. The second year, they had done better.

They were checking the state of the bladder for the press, more delicate work that would not be trusted to slaves, when the door to the workroom opened. Raen cocked a head to listen, but did not look up from their work until their mother spoke a clipped command for dancing lights to spark in the air, and the room took on a glow.

It ached for the first moment, after a day working in the gentle dark of the room, but Raen blinked as their eyes adjusted and allowed themselves to look up curiously. Their hands fell still as they saw in the doorway not just their mother, but a gnome beside her.

“This is where you will work,” said Raen’s mother. It took Raen a moment to translate the words in their head. The gnome looked around.

Raen had seen Svirfneblin before, usually as slaves, but a couple of times they and Lledrith had peered from windows and rooftops to catch sight of a trade party meeting with drow beyond the city gates. This gnome did not look like those Svirfneblin had, though, her skin a lighter brown by the dim lights and her eyes less prominent. There looked to be a greenish tinge to her grey-white hair. She had a bundle in her arms, which she kept tight to her chest, and Raen could not help curiosity that a slave would be allowed to keep some of their possessions. The gnome’s fabric clothes had already been taken, probably to be reworked, surface cloths too precious to be wasted on slaves.

“My child Raen,” continued Raen’s mother; Raen started at the unexpected words, “will likely be watching the grimlocks or other workers we have. They are the grandchild of the Matron Mother, and you will treat them with all due respect as such.”

Ah, merely reminding the slave of their duties by all drow. Some races, once they grasped that slaves were common, started to think that drow might be enslaved as well. A few punishments for trying to act as a drow’s equal was usually all that it took.

Raen glanced down at the gnome, and accidentally caught her gaze. She had peculiar eyes, a piercing blue brighter than any shade that Raen had seen on a drow.

“Raen.”

They looked up quickly.

“Finish your task and meet us outside.”

“Yes, Mother,” they said. The dancing lights slipped through the walls to take their light outside, and Raen hastily turned to finish the check of the bladder as their mother took the gnome outside again.

Mercifully, the bladder had been properly stored the year before, and was still in good condition. Raen dried their hands and unrolled their sleeves, glanced over at the grimlock still working away, and decided that if their mother had seen fit to call them outside she was fine with the grimlock being left to work unattended.

“Continue your work,” said Raen. “I will return before you finish.”

The grimlock grunted for response; he spoke Undercommon perfectly well, but saved it only for responses that needed to be more complex. Raen was not sure whether it was acceptance or defiance, but knew it was not their place to ask.

They exited to find their mother and the gnome standing outside, their mother pointing out the fast-ripening lines of shadowdrupe fruit, shiny purple-black and sweet with faerzress.

“–will soon be harvested,” Raen’s mother said. “Is similar process to one used on surface. I do not expect you to build things for this harvest. Watch, and by next harvest I will judge. You have questions?”

“How long between the harvests?”

“Even in Surface Common, you are to use titles.”

The gnome pressed her lips together for a moment, a pause but not an outright show of defiance, then swallowed. “How long between the harvests, Master Eresidae?”

“Same as on surface. Faerzress is as reliable as moon.” Raen’s mother turned to check they were there, then gestured them closer. “Raen also speaks Surface Common. In year you will learn Undercommon also. I know traders teach few words.”

The gnome simply nodded.

Raen’s mother clicked her fingers, annoyance pinching her features. “Give name,” she said.

“Masters drow,” said the gnome, in halting Undercommon. “I am to serve you. This slave’s name is Nysanlin Rivenstone.”

Raen nodded their head in acknowledgement.

“Will take you to room,” said Raen’s mother. “You begin observing in morning. You will not escape. If you try, will be killed. You were not expensive.”

“I understand, Master Eresidae,” said Nysanlin.

Raen’s mother switched back to their native drow tongue. “Wait outside your grandmother’s study for me. You will be minding this slave much of the time. I will return shortly.”

“Yes, mother.”

Their mother led the gnome away, and Raen took themselves immediately to where they had been told to wait, even if they knew well that it would take her longer to get there. As they passed one of the studies they could glimpse Ael instead, at her books, but the rooms to their grandmother’s private study were both closed and warded. Raen waited outside the doors, delicately formed spiderwebs of metal with dark, shimmering panes of beetle carapace as tough as steel but both lighter and more beautiful.

Raen checked themselves as they waited, grimacing at their rougher work clothes. Their grandmother would be unimpressed at least to see them like this. But there were some jobs too important to be trusted to slaves that were nonetheless unpleasant and unpopular, and Raen had long since decided that if such jobs would earn them a reputation for reliability, then they would take them. Unfortunately, it tended to mean lichen damaging the cuffs of one’s shirts and far too many creases gathering on one’s boots. At the very least, Bryn checked down their hair, taking out a couple of the bands that had been pulling more of it back.

The amount of time it took their mother to join them only served to leave them more nervous. The strangeness of a gnome servant at all, the niggling concern that their mother might not have told their grandmother about this in advance, and the fact that this slave was seemingly about to be placed under Raen’s watch. Gnomes were known for being too clever and too unpredictable to easily keep caged – picking locks, foiling wards, out-manoeuvring spells. In some Houses, Raen could not help but think, to given someone such a task would be deliberately setting them up for failure, for discredit in the eyes of the Matron Mother. But House Eresidae could hardly afford such schemes.

Their mother finally strode into view, and Raen drew up taller but kept their eyes averted out of respect. Euna Eresidae still held sway with her mother when many elder daughters would have lost favour – three children lost, only one daughter remaining, but a skill for negotiating and balance that had done well for their family. It had been at her insistence that oak barrels had been traded down from the surface in which to age the shadowdrupe wine, after which Raen had certainly noticed an increase in the work demanded of their family. That, they supposed, was a sign of success.

Raen’s mother stopped in front of the door, hands folded in front of her. “Revered Matron Mother,” she said. “I request an audience.”

“Come in, Euna,” said Raen’s grandmother, voice crisp and irritable. The doors swung open, and Raen’s mother entered, nodding for them to follow.

They filed in behind their mother, though they could not help the thought that they would rather have waited outside still. Matron Mother Dumaesa had nearly five hundred years, a sign of strength of will in itself when she had been the third daughter of a third daughter within House Nicodamidae. Her hair had turned from white to pale blonde with age, and she disdained the clothes that her granddaughters wore, but she still had a striking, classically drow beauty about her. Her high cheekbones and narrow jaw had been passed to most of the family, though the lilac tones of her eyes were less common.

Again, Raen’s mother fell still, waiting for permission to speak. Raen remained behind her, knowing better than to draw attention to themselves, eyes turned to the polished stone floor. Books lined the shelves around them, and they could feel the faint hum of magically-sealed caskets even without looking up.

Only Ael, of course, knew that Raen could feel the prickling pull of magic on the air. Faerzress was all around them, the pulse of magic as constant to all drow as the sound of one’s own heartbeat. But as Raen grew older, they were noticing more and more currents of other magics, from subtly enchanted cloaks to the ringing, tangible feeling of the emblems of the Morrigan carried by priestesses. She had said that any female drow with such awareness would be sent to House Aranaea, but Raen had recoiled not just from the wrongness of being called female but because of the idea of being sent to the Morrigan’s House. It was their secret, then, Ael had promised, with a kiss to Raen’s brow. Their family would never know.

But Raen knew. And it felt like itching twisting into pain to start in their grandmother’s office while magic clawed around them.

“You have bought a new slave,” said Raen’s grandmother, without waiting for preamble. From the corner of their eye, Raen saw their mother stiffen warily. The Matron Mother did not speak further, however, and merely let the uncomfortable silence fill the room again.

“It is accounted for in the budget for this year’s slave purchases,” said Euna finally. “Kobolds are plentiful this year, their costs are cheaper. This one is an investment for future years.”

Raen did not dare look up to see the change in their grandmother’s expression, but was quite sure that she was expressing more that way than in words. “Surface gnomes do not speak Undercommon. They are prone to escape attempts. Rarely last a year even if they are taken. So why purchase one? Especially without consulting me.”

Acid seeped into her last words, and Raen swallowed uncomfortably. It was never said aloud that their aunt Iyolana and her three daughters would perhaps make better heirs for the House, but their mere existence was enough for even Raen to be aware of the pressure.

“It is smart enough to learn Undercommon,” Raen’s mother replied. “It already learned a few words from the slavers, and pronounces them well. And I have told it that if it tries to escape, it will be killed, but if it works and does not cause trouble then it will be well-kept. Reasonable food and room, not how some houses would keep it.”

Another long pause. “What do you want it for?”

Raen carefully let out a breath of relief. The gamble with the oak barrels had paid off; they presumed that their grandmother was now weighing this choice as a similar gamble.

“These surface gnomes, rock gnomes, they are known for their skill as tinkers and in making things. I believe with the right motivation, it could make improvements to our workflow. Perhaps machine that could clean fruit, rather than needing so many goblins or kobolds. Less stalk intrusion, less work, cleaner flavour.”

“Might be done. But why not svirfneblin? They are cheaper, and they already know Undercommon.”

Raen was not privy to how much slaves actually cost, although they knew that there was much discussion each year between their mother, grandmother and aunts about how much should be set aside for them. But the rarer things were, the more expensive they always became, and svirfneblin were rare enough already. Whether this rock gnome would be more expensive still, or whether she would be seen as near-useless and handed out for relatively little, they could not say. Slave-trading families always had enough sacrifices to offer to the Morrigan for favour, after all.

“It was visiting svirfneblin city,” said Raen’s mother. “It does not yet speak enough Undercommon to say why, but svirfneblin sometimes speak the surface tongue anyway. It carried tinkers tools and small… things, clockwork machines. Has apparent skill. And svirfneblin have little imagination, you know that. I do not need skilled hands for this, I need a mind that create new ways to do things. And since if it is from surface, it may have other thoughts on how to do things as well. Might be able to learn things from it, so that we might improve them.”

“These tricks surface-dwellers create to avoid the toil to which they are suited,” Raen’s grandmother said, disdainfully. There was a whisper of fabric and the slight shift of her chair against the floor, and Raen presumed she had taken a seat. That, as well, was a good sign for her mood, tone acid but not angry. She was tall for a drow, after all, and enjoyed looming over family members who were less so – which was most of them save Raen. “Tell me you do not intend to allow their lazy habits among our slaves.”

Ah. A chance for their mother to defend herself, at least. Raen risked a glance, without raising their head, and saw a nervous set about their mother’s shoulders. She had known, then, that this was a gamble.

“Of course not, Matron Mother. But there are tasks to which a drow should not have to stoop, but which kobolds and goblins are too stupid to do effectively. If this rock gnome can create something to do such tasks, it will mean we can better direct our skills and will not have to catch so many slave mistakes.”

“Hmm. Very well, then. I will permit your experiment to run. But do not allow it to escape or become a scandal, Euna.” The name rang like a warning. “Now, why have you bought this one to this conversation?”

“Raen understands the importance of not damaging the Houses’s property,” said Raen’s mother. “And they are most involved in… practicalities of the role. I do not wish to take one of my nieces merely to watch one slave. Raen is already on ground.”

“Raen,” said their grandmother, the single word a clear order. Raen swallowed, then looked up slowly, settling their gaze about the level of her hands. Silver jewellery glittered there, the better to show the rich deep colour of her skin. “What… practicalities do you handle?”

Raen paused for a moment, not sure whether they were expecting or hoping that their mother would answer. Instead, they felt her gaze boring into him in turn. “Overseeing the grimlocks in the heavywork, Matron Mother,” they said. “Currently one is preparing the barrels for use, and the other is cleaning the slave quarters under Shari’s supervision.”

Shari, quicker with the lash of both her tongue and her whip, was only growing frustrated with still having such tasks as she neared adulthood. In private, Ael rolled her eyes and pointed out to Raen that was the very reason that Shari was so limited, likely to be overtaken even by her own younger sister. Given that said younger sister had not even yet reached two turns of the web, it was quite the prediction.

Their grandmother gave a nod and murmur of recognition.

“I check the valves and press each year,” Raen continued. “Review the work of the grimlocks in preparing. Supervise the slaves we have for the harvesting and crushing, and check the storage and quality of materials to fetch when Mother Euna or Mother Iyolana wishes them.” For smaller amounts, Raen would even deliver the boxes themselves, though for larger crates or boxes it was worth ordering around the grimlocks. Raen’s own mother was in charge of much of the monitoring of the wine during its fermentation, but when her attention was needed elsewhere Iyolana would step in to check on things. But the yeast, as well as the powders and hulls which supported it, would often still need adjusting afterwards. “When the pump over is being done–”

“Yes, yes,” said Raen’s grandmother, and Raen stopped almost mid-word. “I remember. So you handle those aspects now. The lees and crystals also, I imagine?”

“I monitor and report to Mother Euna or Mother Iyolana, then oversee the slaves who respond.”

“Indeed.”

Before Raen, most of the tasks had fallen to one of their grandmother’s brothers, who had avoided being taken to House by another family to remain with House Nicodamidae and then Eresidae. He had died when Raen was a child, however, and Raen had slowly gathered more of his former duties over time from the other family members who had taken them on instead.

“Bregwyn is responsible for taking the pits to our Mother House, yes?”

“Yes, Matron Mother,” said Raen. It was a foolishly simple question, and they wondered what their grandmother was testing them on. The poison that could be extracted from the pits of the shadowdrupe was not a powerful one, but it was unusual, which could make it more useful in certain circumstances.

“Has the rock gnome had all of our rules explained to it?”

Raen glanced across at their mother, and when she cleared her throat looked down again.

“The Undercommon will need to be worked on first. Until then, it will be confined to its chamber. But I am sure it will learn what happens when it breaks rules.”

“We shall see,” said Raen’s grandmother. Another heavy pause filled the room. “Very well, then. But I know where this gamble originates, Euna, and you are not immune from punishment if there are… complications.”

“I understand, Matron Mother. I will see to it that you are not disappointed.”

Raen hoped, for all their sakes, that their mother was right.

The rock gnome had been placed in a chamber that they rarely used for slaves, which was opened up only on the rare occasions that they might take on a slave of a more unusual race. Such usually came from being loaned by House Nicodamidae, and the rest of the time it was kept sealed.

There was a small grill set into the door, and glancing in Raen could see the rock gnome seated on the rock bed inside, poking at the thick dried lichen mattress. She looked up as Raen flicked dancing lights into place inside the room before unbarring it to enter.

“Nysanlin?” They said. The name was quite pronounceable, all things considered, not like some other races. “Nysanlin Rivenstone, you said.”

She cocked her head to regard Raen as they stepped into the doorway. The dark metal collar looked particularly thick around her neck, although it appeared she had slipped the fabric of her dress beneath some of it to make it more comfortable.

Raen gestured to themselves. “This master is…”

They trailed off. Teaching her the formal phrases might be what the slavers did, but it did not feel like it would be useful for her to learn Undercommon more generally. They waved the words away and started over, pointing to their chest.

“My name is Raen.” A point to her. “Your name is Nysanlin.”

“My name is… Nysanlin,” she said.

Raen held up the notebook their mother had given them, gave Nysanlin time to look over it, then stepped further into the room and handed it to her. She took it, with a curious expression. Raen followed up with the small roll of inkstone, nibs and pens which their mother had indicated. Checking in the small family library had confirmed that surface gnomes generally wrote using the Dethek script, different to both the usual Espruar script used for Drow and the specialised High Drowic which Raen could still only read with slow care.

Talking like this would help neither of them; Raen knelt down in front of the gnome, putting them more on eye-level. Carefully, they also switched over to Surface Common, reminding themselves that they could not swap between languages when speaking in it. Drow and Undercommon complimented each other well, but the surface tongues were a different matter.

“I speak a little Surface Common,” they said. Whether their mother dud bit not know how limited their Surface Common was, or did not care, did not matter once she had made her statements. Raen could not very well have corrected her. They tapped their ear as Nysanlin frowned; most likely their strong accent, they supposed. “I understand more. Undercommon use some Gnome words, these will be more easy?”

She nodded, slowly.

“Good,” said Raen. They gestured vaguely in the direction of the door. “Work use lots Gnome words. Tech-ni-cal.” They had to sound the word out carefully, and were not sure they got the vowels quite right. “Matron Mother Dumaesa say you must understand, if you break rules, punishment. I do not want to punish.”

“That will be difficult if I don’t know the rules,” she said, finally. Raen got the sense she was drawing out the words, slowing them down, for their benefit. They were honestly grateful. Unlike the more Major Houses, it was not as if their House could afford a tutor fluent in surface tongues.

They nodded. “Yes. I want to say rules. I will try to say in Surface Common… if not, we…” they gestured to the book. “Find words. Yes?”

Nysanlin looked them over for a long time, and Raen was not quite sure what to make of it. It was not the sort of calculating look that another drow might give, a counting of worth without spoken words. Finally, Nysanlin looked down at the book, then opened it to the first blank pages and smoothed it on her lap, before turning her piercing blue eyes back on Raen again.

“Why do you act so differently from the drow who sold me to you?”

They had to take a moment to unravel the relative complexity of the sentence, just about able to stop their lips moving as they did so. At least she seemed to wait for them to do so.

“They are traders. Buy and sell.” A shrug. Surely they understood even on the surface that traders in a commodity did not necessarily value it as much as buyers? Some Houses bought slaves on a whim, and did away with them just as easily, but House Eresidae had to make budgets. Slaves had to be worth the coin they cost. “We work. We want you to work. Know rules is good. Mother Euna, woman before?” They looked for a nod. “She want you to make things. Gnomes good at making, yes?”

“We have that reputation, yes.”

They didn’t recognise the long word, but the ‘yes’ was at least clear enough. Nysanlin sounded… sad. Tired. Different from the usual sullen or resigned or angry kobolds or goblins. Corralling _them_ was worse than dealing with young children, a role for which Raen had mercifully not been considered a good fit.

“Before, we not have gnome,” said Raen. This time Nysanlin frowned slightly, and cocked her head at him. “Is…” what were the words? “Is _new_ , we have gnome. We want you to live many years, to be healthy, to have books and tools. You need tools for work, yes?”

Another nod, slower. “But _you_ … you said you didn’t want to punish me. Just me?”

Raen was caught off-guard. It was hard enough to put words around it even in Drow why they did not much care for the task of punishing the slaves. It was unpleasant, it used up time that could be better used working, it made it harder to continue working in the same place as them. It was a sign of a creature not well suited to their role as a slave, in Raen’s private opinion that they did not dare speak aloud. But for the most part, they simply did not understand why it was that others seemed to enjoy it so much.

They shrugged, awkwardly. None of that was the sort of thing to be sharing with a slave. Even Ael, of all people Ael, did not know some of the things that Raen found themselves thinking about the slaves that passed through their halls each year.

“I do not want to need to punish,” they said carefully. It sounded as if they were simply still concentrating on the grammar, or so they hoped. Something that felt like inspiration struck, and they grabbed at the opportunity to move the question aside. “It is not my work to gift pain to the Goddess.”

“It is someone’s work, though.”

Her tone did not sound like a question, but they way she was still eyeing him looked like one. Raen nodded. How much would she know, being from the surface, of how the drow understood the gods? Understood in a better way than the surface-dwellers did, at that.

“Is gift. All gods want gifts. Glory to Morrigan, Queen of the Battlefield–” Morrigan’s titles, now, those had been words to recite over and over, in tongue after tongue. The only thing that Raen could do in Dwarven was offer glory to the Morrigan, and many of the city would be the same. To tell a captive to whom their blood was to be spilled, or to speak in defiance if ever taken as prisoner. To honour the Goddess in many tongues was as much part a training as the weight of a rapier in the hand. “–she who bathes in blood.”

Nysanlin actually started slightly at the suddenly fluency of the words.

“But I… I work. Make shadowdrupe wine. And Mother Euna want you to make things to make wine better.”

The gnome pressed her lips together, regarding Raen levelly. It was not like any other slave had behaved before, but it was not much against the rules. Too much eye contact, perhaps, but she had not been told about that yet, and Raen had been the one to begin the conversation. Sure, Raen could have found reasons to punish her, but there was not really any call to. Not when she was… talking uncomfortably as if she were the equal of a drow.

That was it, they supposed. She still thought herself too equal. Kobolds and goblins knew that their kind were suitable as drow slaves, but most likely the surface races did not realise it. That would be more difficult to make her understand, though. Important as it was to understanding why all slaves needed to behave in appropriate ways, it was something that Raen struggled enough with articulating in Undercommon or Drow.

“You speak to a drow,” said Raen, “is _Master_. You know Undercommon word, yes?”

“Yes, Master Eresidae.”

Raen nodded. “You speak to me, I am Master Eresidae. You speak to Mother Euna, she is Master Eresidae. When you speak…” and the gap in their Surface Common opened like a pit beneath their feet. “Speak to me, on her?”

No, that was not the right word at all. Fiddly little prepositions in Surface Common; they were markedly different from the ones in Undercommon, and Drow used a different way of marking case. Raen hissed between their teeth, glancing down at the floor between them and searching for the word in the dusty vaults of memory. It had been some years since they had even _practised_ their Common, by the Morrigan’s sword.

Nysanlin cleared her throat, and Raen looked up again. “Speak about her?” Nysanlin suggested, words very careful again where she had spoken more comfortably before.

Relieved, Raen nodded. “Yes, _about_. Thank you.” It slipped out before they meant it to; Ael would laugh at them for thanking other drow too freely, but scowl when it slipped out to a slave. Even if, in Raen’s experience, a simple word of thanks could pay off a debt that might be otherwise held over their head. “When you speak to her, she is Master Eresidae. But when you speak _about_ her, she is Mother Euna. You will not speak to Matron Mother. She is Matron Mother Dumaesa. You understand?”

“Yes, Master Eresidae.”

The goblins and kobolds were never this fast at learning. “In Undercommon, is good. Not all drow speak Surface Common.” And even for the one word, it could make quite the difference to whether a slave would be called disobedient or not. And then hours of work could get lost to punishments. “Slaves…” they pointed towards the door again. “Slaves not you. They do not speak Surface Common.”

Nysanlin nodded.

“Mother Euna wants you to learn Undercommon and to see work. Then you make ideas, yes?”

She gave them a look filled with too many things to be read, and Raen did not at all like it. Ael was better at those things, at reading people and guessing what they meant beneath the pretty façade of their words. Raen was slowly learning, but mostly just kept to picking their own words carefully. Ael was far better at taking the lead on such matters.

“Yes,” said Nysanlin finally. “I will make ideas for you.”


	4. Adult, 88 (Last Night in Menzoberranzan)

Why they awoke from their reverie, they never did quite work out.

But as soon as Bryn opened their eyes, they saw the shadow-clad figure in the corner of the room, muscles coiled to strike. They were already recoiling as the figure moved, as there was a glint of a blade in the darkness –

The room was unnaturally silent as the figure pounced upon Bryn, and as Bryn attempted to throw themselves aside. Even their pounding heart, racing so hard they could _feel_ it in their throat, did not sound in their ears. Bryn was knocked to their back on the bed, half-rose, then the figure was pinning them down once again. They managed to deflect the figure’s blow with a forearm, blade cutting at the air, the sweet tang of poison coming it.

Bryn went to shout, even as they realised it would be useless. The figure’s other arm moved sharply, and Bryn felt the bite of a weapon in their side, more like heat than pain somehow.

They gritted their teeth and slammed their elbow into the figure’s face. For a moment, they thought that they saw surprise there; the figure flinched, but did not manage to avoid the blow. It felt like something cracked, and Bryn felt more hot blood on their bare forearm.

It felt like some twisted fragment of a dream, those unreal images that played out under the veil of true sleep. Bryn could see the blade in the figure’s right hand more clearly now; it was not metal, but some shining black substance, glittering even in the dark of their room. Whatever was on it seeped down the hilt, running cleanly over the gloves the figure wore but burning, worse than a blade, when it touched Bryn’s bare hand.

With a silent snarl, teeth bared, the figure tried to bear down on the poisoned blade. Bryn grabbed their right wrist with both hands and forced it back, even as the blade in their side was twisted deeper.

They didn’t have to question _what_ the figure meant, only _why_. Assassinations and attacks like this were the struggles of Major Houses, of women and powerful figures. But here was a knife, here was the smell of poison, here was a figure masked so only their eyes showed and wearing light, strong carapace armour that would barely have whispered even without the spell that had to have been cast.

They could handle themselves well enough, in the training ring, in some street brawl. But as the blade slipped free from their side, only to plunge in again with another burst of heat and wet seep of blood, Bryn knew that this was far more.

Their fear could match the figure’s strength, but it would not last with the blade in their side. In a flash, Bryn released the assassin’s wrist and rolled sideways, poisoned blade sweeping past them to plunge into the bed. The knife in their side tore free; the figure half-fell downwards, and in a fit of savage desperation Bryn lunged in and sank their teeth into the exposed inside of the assassin’s forearm.

The taste of blood hit them, cut through with the stronger smell of the poison so frighteningly close. In a spray of blood the figure wrenched their arm away, and Bryn flinched from the spray across their eyes, but they saw the knife fall beside them both.

They grabbed for it, even left-handed, closing so tightly around the cool metal hilt that it ached in their bones. A punch knocked their head against the bed; a second; they clung to the knife even as pain flashed and lights danced in front of their eyes more fitfully than any faerie fire. Their vision blurred, eyes watering, but they blinked it away and shifted to avoid the jab of knuckles coming for the weak spot just beneath their collar bone.

The assassin’s blow caught the bone instead, and fresh, sharper pain flooded their left arm. Another blow, and that arm would be useless; it seemed to occur to them both in the same heartbeat as the assassin drew back to punch again and Bryn –

One moment, the knife was at their side. The next it was slicing through the assassin’s stomach, any part that Bryn could reach, up in an uneven jagged line across towards the assassin’s ribs. Bryn felt blood pour over them, followed by wet slapping weights, and it was the assassin who looked down first as the silence around them finally broke to the sound of their harsh breathing and the scrape of knife on bone.

As the assassin went weak, Bryn snatched the poisoned knife away and shoved them aside, realising only then that the weights they had felt striking them were the figure’s organs spilling loose from their gut. Vomit rose in their throat as they staggered to their feet, clutching their right hand to the still-bleeding cuts in that side, other hand now caked with blood.

The hilt of the blade abruptly felt cursed in their hand. Bryn threw it to the floor, then flinched at the sound that it made. They were starting to shake, they realised, even as the sound of the world outside became audible again. Distant shouts or notes of music, the normal sounds of the city.

Unbidden, their eyes came back to the figure on the bed, limbs splayed too loosely and guts spilled red across the white sheets. Blood reached the far side of the bed and began to seep down the fabric towards the floor.

Their hand shook against their side. Their throat felt so tight that they could barely breathe.

Clenching their teeth against the chattering to threatened to overtake them, Bryn stepped back forwards, checking the assassin’s belt with one violently trembling hand. The empty sheath of the knife, a black silk bag now hanging empty, and then a narrow metal tube of the sort sometimes used to protect letters from wetness.

Bryn snatched the lid off with their teeth, and only thought after spitting it out how easy it would have been for there to be poison there. An even more foolish way to die. They pulled out the curled parchment inside, smearing it with bloody fingerprints, and stumbled the necessary steps to press it flat onto the surface of their desk.

It was no epic tale, no long letter. But still, Bryn’s eyes seemed to refuse to focus for a moment, and they swallowed on a dry mouth with another stab of pain.

_Consider this a warning, Lledrith. Remove yourself from political schemes which you do not understand._

Finally, they managed to read it. A second time. Then a third, back of their throat burning again as it sunk in fully that the poisoned blade might have been meant to kill them, but it had all been to hurt someone else.

“Lledrith…” they whispered.

The sound almost startled them, everything having happened so fast and so silently that it seemed the rest of the world had not noticed. Bryn let go of the note to lean against the desk as their legs threatened to give way beneath them.

Their first instinct was almost to call for Lledrith herself. To ask her what to do, about the ragged cuts in their own side, about the dead assassin on their bed, about the sheer _amount_ of blood and that was absurd, the blood should have been the least of their worries, but there was so much of it that it seemed to be filling the room.

But then they imagined Lledrith’s fury, and cringed. Their own rage, months spent hunting down those who might have been involved in slipping poison in Lledrith’s cup, and they had just been foolish youths in those days…

How far would Lledrith’s anger go?

How fast would whoever had sent this threat decide that it was time to be certain Bryn was dead?

Bryn looked down at their side, carefully pulling away their hand before peeling up the fabric of their shirt to reveal the multiple cuts, running together, bright red against their skin. It looked back enough to need stitches. On the bright side, they supposed, there was no added pain of poison, and any assassin worth their wage would therefore have kept the blade clean.

They let their shirt fall back over it again, trying to think clearly through the growing ache in their head and the watering, hot pain in their left eye. The vision on that side was still half-blurred, and Bryn suspected it was going to swell shut before too long.

Fights in the street were one thing, but they had lost count of how many of those there had been. And it was not just Icariella youths taking it upon themselves to start a fight in the name of their cousin’s honour; someone had been paid, and likely paid more than Bryn would have thought their own life worth, to do this.

To give Lledrith this warning.

House Eresidae had not been worthy of this much notice, before. And it was Lledrith, Bryn _knew_ that it was Lledrith, testing the delicate filaments of her webs only to find them fed into those of other, older, larger spiders. Even if Bryn escaped being killed as warning to her, if she went too far and endangered herself too much –

It was unthinkable. But Bryn knew they would follow, to the brink and beyond, would follow Lledrith down into the Morrigan’s clutches. If she strove too hard, they would follow, and it would be as easy as it had ever been.

That was, not easy enough to be without pain, but never difficult enough to stop them.

To play in the games of the Major Houses always ended in death, sooner or later. And if they did not walk away from Lledrith’s side, they would walk themselves into that same death.

Bryn looked down, one more time, at the blood-marked warning note that made it clear how much of a _thing_ , of a _non-person_ , they were as far as the intricacies of politics were concerned.

They could wield a sword well enough. Speak Common. Manage slaves, manage books, manage time. Skills enough to gain work with a larger House, one rich enough to afford drow servants to take on tasks that even junior members of the House would not wish for but which would never be trusted to a slave.

Not in Menzoberranzan, though. Lledrith would find them, and they would not be able to say no to her. Would fall, so easily, back onto this same path.

But to leave the city…

 _Consider this a warning_.

Swallowing, they gathered what strength they could still find. There were always trading caravans heading for other drow cities; they often allowed lone or small groups of travellers to accompany them. It was always better to have numbers on one’s side in the caves; even Bryn, never having stepped foot out of the city, knew that.

Never having left the city.

But to stay alive, to not be waiting every night for another blade, to walk the streets without having to watch out for some figure watching for an opportunity.

To never see Lledrith again.

To give up the one source of warmth they had known, the one who had answered their questions, sewn up their wounds, cheered for them in Spider’s Turn melees even if it had ended in embarrassment.

The one who had told them to stop entering the Spider’s Turn melees, after one injury too many. Bryn reached up and touched the thin scar beneath their hair. Just one of the scars that would mean nothing were it not for their grandmother’s fury that they had gone against her will.

The watering of their left eye, they could blame on the pain. They weren’t so sure about the other side, or about the lump in their throat that threatened to stop their breath.

An act of selfishness, a betrayal of their house, in exchange for their life. But a poisoned blade, burning in the hand, gave a rather different feel to selfishness.

Bryn stooped down, biting their tongue at the pain that shot through their side, and picked up the bloodied, poison-strung blade once again. They could see a ghost of their reflection in the surface, distorted and blood-smeared. One more breath, hardening to the decision, and they straightened again.

If they were ever to leave this city, they wanted it to be _alive_.

Even if that meant leaving everything behind.


	5. Youth, 70s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I call this piece "Repressed Bisexual Sulking, Part the First".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the slim chance anyone is reading, content notes for: getting into some of the meat of a deeply sexist/gender-hierarchy society; reproductive control including forced abortion; reference to sexual assault of slaves (not acknowledge by the characters as sexual assault).
> 
> Darkfire is the innate drow faerie fire. (Playing as a drow cleric means I currently have the innate drow faerie fire on Charisma _and_ normal faerie fire casting on wisdom, gonna differentiate them somehow.) Illiyitrii and nedeirra are canon concepts, though this nedeirra differs greatly from the one canon portrayal in _Daughter of the Drow_.

Both laughter and music slipped from the mouth of the cavern, despite the attempts that had been made to conceal it. Raen shook their head to themselves, but Ael laughed as a glimpse of darkfire showed around the edge of the darkness.

Honestly, Raen wondered why they bothered. Most likely this same cave had been as popular for parties in the age of their grandmother as it was now; better for all that it continued to be used, and at least some of the wildness of the parties be contained away from more prosperous streets.

Part of the wall seemed to unfurl as they approached, until the figure pushed back the hood of their cloak and the illusion shimmered apart. “Password?”

“Really, Sylgaer,” said Ael, “I would have thought you know by now what my password is.”

The first time that Raen had accompanied her, they had needed prompting, but after so many years they were already sliding the bottle from its bag before Ael had even finished speaking.

Sylgaer grinned as Raen handed over the single bottle of shadowdrupe wine. “Ah, a lady of eloquence. Of course you are welcome, as always. I will let my sister know that you are here.”

Ael looped her arm through Raen’s as they stepped through the veil of shadow – and the attempted muffling of the music beyond, although it seemed to be struggling in some moments – and into the party proper. The swell in noise was enough to almost catch Raen mid-step, even now; a wave of laughter, chatter and jeering hit them the moment they stepped inside, gloom given way to glittering walls of darkfire and orbs of dancing lights weaving among the dripping-stone vault above them.

Charel was already slipping between figures to meet them, delight sparkling in her eyes. She was dressed in stark white, the better to accentuate her unusual silver hair, and was quick to reach out to clasp hands. With Ael’s right hand tucked safely in their arm, it was Raen who accepted the outstretched hand, carefully aware for any strange sensation on their hand even though Charel had her reputation for throwing fair and good parties. It was simply a reflex, especially when it came to someone reaching for Ael’s hand.

“I am glad you could make it, as always,” said Charel, releasing Raen’s hand and speaking straight to Ael. “I’m sure you will be glad to hear that the nedeirra proper has not yet started.”

“Why, would you think me single-minded?” Ael quirked an eyebrow, but her tone was playful. “Perhaps I am simply in search of the scintillating company we can keep here.”

Charel did not bother hiding her laugh. Scintillating company was a matter for the illiyitrii; nedeirra were for dancing, and drinking, and giving less care than usual about the precise nature of words spoken. Though Raen was not much one for the dancing, and drank only enough to hold their own, it was a relief to be surrounded by freer words whether or not they did much speaking themselves.

“Of course,” Charel said. “I forget sometimes what great conversationalists we invite.”

“The better to be delighted anew by their wit,” said Ael. “Come on, then, lead on to where our offering will certainly not be appearing.”

Shadowdrupe wine was far too good, and too rare, to be wasted on a nedeirra. It was a trick enough, each year, to manage to slip a bottle or two out of the family’s stores without it being noticed. Ael did remark, at least, that it was much easier to achieve with Raen’s help. Even then, they did not drink them; they were far more valuable to be traded, one always going to Charel to keep in well with her branch of House Telemidae, the other used as Ael saw fit over the course of the year.

Charel led them through the crowd, both she and Ael greeting people in passing while Raen remained quiet and kept their eyes on people around them. Charel’s parties meant that scions of even the eight Great Houses of the city would be there, never mind various Major Houses, and Raen always felt hopelessly out of place at the once-a-moon gatherings. Ael, on the other hand, moved with a sinuous confidence even though everyone around must have known how little their House would usually be welcomed to such gatherings.

She looked the part, though. With her hair done in the sort of style that could not be done alone – she smiled coyly when asked whose work it was, and neither of them admitted the hours Raen had spent practising the delicate braids – and in silver-pricked black silk that bared her back and whispered about her legs, she made even simple silvery jewellery look better than some of the far more richly adorned guests at the party. In Raen’s opinion, at least, although they knew they were biased.

“Have you heard yet about Naeca?” said Ael, as Charel dropped back a little to be within hearing distance.

Delight flickered in Charel’s eyes; she seemed to take a particular delight in hearing the gossip of the more minor Houses, as if it were its own specific form of entertainment. Then again, like Ael, she seemed skilled at keeping scores upon scores of names and stories in her head all at once. “No,” she said, “I have _not_.”

“Mmm. They are doing about all that they can in the hopes that Magreyth will notice them. I’m not sure they even realise how obvious they are.”

Charel gave a delighted laugh. “Why, if I’d known I would have invited them! Magreyth is to be here tonight, he would doubtless find it amusing.”

And probably favour Naeca with at least some of his time, Raen thought sourly, though they knew better than to grimace at his name. From a family lesser than House Orslobidae, Magreyth’s behaviour would have seen him taken to house by one or other of the female drow he was known to dallied with. At the very least, it would have been more likely that his sisters or aunts would have had to keep him better in line.

“Oh, I am sure that not inviting them is simply prolonging the inevitable. They’ll embarrass themselves sooner or later.”

“Yes, but controlling when it happens would have been so… _delightful_ ,” said Charel, with a sigh. “And at least more _novel_ entertainment than whatever tonight’s wizards have to offer.”

“If it has not unfolded by next moon, you could consider it,” Ael replied.

Raen could already feel themselves growing mortified on Naeca’s behalf. Foolish though Naeca was certainly being to allow themselves not just some sort of infatuation with Magreyth, but also to be making it obvious to those around… well, it took no imagination to know how entertained people would be by watching them humiliate themselves.

Just one more advantage to staying out of all such affairs, as far as Raen was concerned. Though the greatest advantage was not being so easily taken from one’s House at all.

“No sign of Rosseryn?” said Ael, as they approached the table set out with sealed bottles and small casks.

One of House Telemidae’s men watched from the side of the table, a male drow with a scar that curled his lip into a permanent smirk and eyes that met nothing. Raen had never heard his name, but knew from Ael that he was a skilled thief and poisoner, and therefore the best guard Charel could have picked for their table. Once guests left it, their drinks were their own to mind, but in over a decade there had been no incident at one of her gatherings.

Charel’s eyes lit up, and she stepped back to an even more conspiratorially close distance. Ael released Raen’s arm, and Raen took that as their cue to fill a goblet under the guard’s ever-watchful eyes.

“No,” said Charel, voice low. Raen made sure to listen all the same. “She has not been seen from their compound in nigh a moon now, and one of their family’s slaves was seen seeking out blackblood lichen at the market…”

To be allowed to bear children was both power and privilege, and meted out to members of the family by its Matron Mother. Raen had heard of a case or two where a pregnancy with twins might be allowed to continue, with twins as rare and lucky as they were, but from the sounds of things Rosseryn had not been so lucky. Blackblood lichen was both effective and painful; a punishment rather than a remedy.

Raen hid their grimace, and their sympathy, behind drinking. The lichen wine was good quality, of course, a balance of sharp and mellow flavour that lingered pleasantly on the tongue, but there were some aftertastes it could not wash away. Being trisbryd meant that children would never be an option for them, but the way that it lingered on the edge of possibility had to be worse for female drow.

“Well,” said Ael. “We shall see how soon she dares show her face in public again. She has cousins at her heels, as well.” She held out a hand towards Raen, who obediently handed her the cup. Between the Telemidae guard and their own mouthfuls, they were confident enough in it. “Has Venhana arrived yet? She was disappointed to not make it last moon…”

“Better. I believe she was drinking before she even arrived, considering how soon she started flyting with Wysorla.”

“What?” Ael’s eyes widened, and utter delight filled her features. “How dare you not _open_ with such a statement, you fiend?” She emptied the goblet in one smooth drink, then handed it back to Raen to refill for them both. Neither of them, mercifully, seemed too inclined to become drunk as easily as some others that they knew. “Please tell me they are still going.”

“Have you ever known Wysorla back down from a flyte? Nine Hells, both of them are like dwarves fighting over some worthless rock.”

True enough, wending to another area of the irregular cave found a circle of people around two central figures, their voices rising alternately above the more distant, muted music. There was a burst of raucous laughter, and some people calling Wysorla’s name, then an eager lull.

“And such a rebuttal!” said Venhana. “So, whence did you steal it? Or did you buy wit – tell me, did you kneel for it? Wise words are beyond you, city-wide it is known, so it seems that with this your thief’s hand you have shown.”

Of course, Wysorla looked unruffled, even as there was cheering and whooping from the circle around them. Raen could see clearly over people’s heads from more than enough distance, but manoeuvred enough of a space that Ael, as well, could see clearly.

“To fall back on slander – why, such a sad state,” Wysorla replied. “Yet you prate, you berate, to bait… let me explate. With words as my weapons I need not to wound you – when I know of your slave-use, why, who needs words untrue?”

This time the laughter had a nastier edge, and Raen saw a flicker of anger at Venhana’s temple. Even Raen knew of the rumour that she had been caught demanding sexual services from one of the human slaves of her family. The detail that it was a _human_ slave was frankly what had made Ael inclined to believe it, she had said; human slaves were only kept by the richest families, who had to make special arrangements for their weak eyes and dietary needs. Venhana’s family had several, all highly-skilled craftspeople hand-picked for captivity in the Underdark because of their skills.

But Venhana had to reply quickly, of course, judging just when the laughter had died down enough. “My dear, why so lazy? To use baseless tales to make such attacks? Poison under your nails would be quicker and cleaner – and less costly, I’d dare, which I’m sure would relieve all those pressures… elsewhere.”

Money. Sex. Stupidity. As far as Raen was concerned, all bouts of flyting ended up encircling the same topics, the main variety being whether the accusations where held only to the one arguing, or whether all of their family was dragged into things as well. They could admit there was a skilful balance to be held, insulting and insinuating without ever crossing the line into something that went too far, but it certainly was not something they found much entertainment in.

Ael, though, laughed and jeered with the rest of the crowd, mischief in her eyes. Some of the circle were already plenty drunk and there for the atmosphere, but Ael had told Raen more than once that gossip and rumours were a better currency than gold among the more powerful houses, simply because there was a more finite amount of them. From time to time she would pluck the goblet from Raen’s hand to drink, and as the flyting wore on and the cup grew empty Raen glanced around to confirm Charel was still close by.

There were only two ways for flyting to end, of course; with an explosion of temper, or with someone walking away. Either one was a loss and an embarrassment, although more quick-tongued folks would make their exit with one last flurry of insults designed to leave their opponent unable to reply. In practice, though, Raen had yet to see it work.

They could almost see Ael cataloguing the rumours in her mind as she watched. Both Wysorla and Venhana accepted goblets from their own attendants in the crowd between their jibes, and though they started far apart the circle around them slowly tightened, air becoming hotter and more humid as more people gathered to the party and the thrumming drumbeat grew more insistent.

Ael tapped on Raen’s arm, then with her nail traced the first letter of Venhana’s name on their wrist. The circle pressed the two women closer together, laughter turning to jeers and sharp noises that died quicker and used the weight of their anticipation to drag out responses faster and faster. Charel excused herself, and Ael watched her go with calculating eyes before turning back to the intensifying words being batted back and forth.

True enough, it was Venhana that snapped, as Wysorla purred to her about human _arts_ in perfectly rhyming, delicately-veiled filth. Venhana’s hand curled into a fist, and Raen saw the fine blades appear on her knuckles with a breath to spare. They wrapped an arm across Ael to draw her backwards just as Venhana struck, slicing open Wysorla’s shoulder and sending fine splatters of blood across those closest. Screams and mocking laughter reached a cacophony as two others hurried in to drag Venhana back, while Wysorla wiped her fingers through the blood and held it up triumphantly to the crowd around them.

“I am _fine_ , Raen,” said Ael with a sigh, disentangling herself from their arm. She took the goblet again, and drank more deeply from it as she turned away from the circle once again. “You fret too much.”

“You were barely more than an arm’s length from those blades,” Raen muttered.

“And I was not the one who had spoken to attract them.”

If she was truly that annoyed, she would make it clear tomorrow, Raen had no doubt. For now, at least, Ael waved the conversation away. “Come on. I have others to greet.”

They wove through the scattered clusters of people at the party. A few had servants or bodyguards with them, from those Houses rich enough to afford drow servants at all, but many drow attended by themselves or to party alongside their family members.

Ael smoothly inserted herself into conversations or left them as she wished. Speaking to this figure about slave prices this year, to that one about the glut of onyx from a captured dwarf mine that would probably be dominating most of the jewellery for a for years, to another still, in more hushed tones, about Venhana’s loss of poise. Raen exchanged a few nods and murmured greetings, but for the most part stayed quiet in Ael’s wake as she drifted, seemingly effortlessly, through people whose word would be enough to have either of them killed. She even accepted slips of dried mushroom from one of them, laughing as she washed them down

Always the unsettling feeling, at these, that there were eyes on the back of their neck.

The combined darkfire lights were starting to dim and swirl as the music grew, and people were already dancing even if full nedeirra had not been called. Ael muttered about searching for Charel, but Raen even with their height was not able to catch sight of her until Ael started purposefully through the crowd. Breathing curses, Raen hurried after her, only to find her laughing as she interrupted Charel’s rather passionate embrace with another female drow that Raen did not recognise.

“You missed the end of the flyting,” said Ael. Her eyes flickered over the female drow in Charel’s lap, who looked flustered and turned her eyes away. Raen recognised the look of someone else who would not normally attend such parties and was still not entirely sure of their role in this one.

“What can I say?” Charel gave her companion a heavy-lidded look. She twirled a lock of the girl’s white hair around her finger. “Sometimes things don’t live up to expectations… and sometimes they do.”

“Well, the room is growing tense for nedeirra, if you wish to avoid a fight spilling. I’m sure people other than Venhana have blades upon them.”

Charel’s smile grew darker with amusement for a moment. “How often do people lose the very flyting they have sought, hmm?” With her thumb she rubbed at her companion’s lower lip; Raen did not look closely enough to see whether there was actually anything there or not. “Very well. I will gather up our wizards who can spin the nedeirra patterns the best, and we will see who will do well for themselves tonight. Come on, my spiderling, let’s go whip up the band.”

Stealing one more kiss, she pulled the girl to her feet and away through the crowd with her. Ael watched them go, then caught Bryn’s gaze and gave a quick roll of her eyes. When first Ael and Raen had attended one of her nedeirra, they had been openly asked whether one or both of them were there thanks to Charel’s taste for pretty guests from lower Houses. Ael had laughed, jested that she might have offered up Raen if that were all that it took to gain an invitation, and not seemed a fraction so mortified by the suggestion as Raen felt.

“Nedeirra,” said Ael, taking the cup from Raen’s hand for one last drink.

“Nedeirra,” they replied.

Dozens of people took to the centre of the cavern as the twisting lines of darkfire marked out the nedeirra patterns on the floor. Still at first, glimmering in blue-violet lines that people delicately stepped through to take their places. As Ael took her place, Raen finished the wine they had been sharing and, with no small relief, found a clear section of rock wall to lean against. All attention would be on the dancers, and even if many of the people stepping back were doing so because they already had too much wine – or mushrooms, for that matter – in them, there was enough leeway that nobody gave Raen a second glance.

Then again, if anyone had, the goblet in their hand and the swathe of fabric they were holding, actually a layer of Ael’s skirts, would probably have made them look like just a waiting servant anyway

By the standards of such a gathering, Raen found the intermission of nedeirra to be a welcome break. There was almost no risk of attention being on them, the number of eyes on the dancing circle meant that nobody would be foolish enough to try anything and Ael was, comparatively, safe.

Charel gestured to the musicians, and the music took on a more deliberate, rhythmic tone as the dancing began. Strictly speaking, only the movements of the feet counted – complex patterns that if followed perfectly would miss the darkfire strands, and which if done wrong would lead to the person being caught and lit up in their failure. But in practice, anyone doing the steps alone would be mocked from their place; arms wove patterns, hips matched beats, and as the cheering picked up from around the room people began to leap, some helping themselves along with magic, others showing off only their physical skill.

There were some missteps almost immediately, of course, people misguaging the music and their steps before it really swung into rhythm. Raen did not feel the need to add to the mockery that met them.

Feet pounded against the floor, louder and faster than a heartbeat. The music, the low lilting flute, continued undaunted beneath the barks of laughter and calls of disparagement or encouragement. As the music began to grow faster, so did the movements of the dancers; the heat of the room and the throbbing music making the air so rich and thick it was almost tangible, even standing back and leaning against the wall.

For a moment, Raen let themselves slip into the fervour of the dance. Racing hearts, quick breath; the glow of sweat on exposed skin or the skimming line of silk soaked through and hinting at the form beneath. Beats marked by hips, by shoulders, by the firm strike of a foot against the ground; lips, smudged deeper red or deeper black by preference, shining in the flickering darkfire lights. And Morrigan’s breath, so many of the dancers were so _beautiful_ , half visible and half silhouettes, the controlled lines of their bodies catching the subtleties of the music and weaving them into form. Raen’s hand tightened on the empty cup they still held as they watched the dancers, the sweeps of hair, the perfect beat caught on the curve of a thigh or the flick of a wrist.

It thrummed in their gut, a draw towards the lithe forms. The air around them was almost stiflingly hot, but for a moment one of the dancing drow men caught Raen’s eye and it made their breath catch. A flash of hot eyes in the darkness, a breathless moment on the air –

Raen caught themselves, swallowed, and looked down at the floor. Behaviour that brought attention down on them was the last thing that they wanted, and with Houses this powerful that included the attention of male or other trisbryd drow. When they looked back up, it was with a more calculated eye, looking for Ael among the thinning numbers. She was still there, of course, feet nimbly finding each beat and body swaying, sensuous but still controlled.

The music grew faster. Darkfire caught at the heels of more of the dancers, and now people were laughing as they left, having done well enough to not fear serious taunts. Charel herself dropped out, flourishing her own purple darkfire from her hands as she returned to her companion for a public, hungry kiss.

There were numbers enough still; Raen slipped away for long enough to claim a fresh drink. The wine was abruptly a little too sweet, but they drank the whole goblet anyway and ignored the raised eyebrow that the guard gave them for it. With a fresh cup set to be ready for Ael, they returned to find the competitors further thinned, only perhaps a dozen remaining and the music achingly, breathlessly fast.

Ael was among them. Raen smiled as pride warmed their chest, scanning her focused expression and knowing she was concentrating too hard to meet anyone eyes. Their smile dimmed, however, as they saw Magreyth among the dancers as well, shirt so delicate and, now, sweat-dampened that it clung to every line of his torso. Much of his hair was pulled back, but there was enough to stick to his cheeks, and it was as Raen saw the smile still on his face that they realised they were looking for too long.

Fewer dancers, fewer, the music becoming almost feverish. All of those remaining were panting for breath, watching drow now whooping and clapping more than taunting the last remaining few who were caught by the darkfire and had to step away. Six, five, members of the great Houses wrapped tightly in competition, and Ael among them, jewellery understated but flashing in the light, steps impeccable in the split-sole fine leather shoes that she wore.

Four dancers. Three. Ael, Magreyth, and a dancer Raen did not know who fast-whirling acrobatic movements had left them streaming with sweat. The weave of the darkfire drew them closer, dancing almost within arm’s reach of each other, flashing up the lines of their bodies. People began calling their names, alternately cheering them on and daring them to fail, and with a glance around Raen made sure to shout Ael’s name as well. They were not the only one, they had to note; for a member of a barely-there minor House Ael had made an impact among Charel’s circles.

Cries of shock went up as the third dancer in the group mistimed her step, so badly that not only did they miss the beat but that they stumbled into Ael as well. Darkfire flashed up around both of them in an instant, and Ael whirled with fury in her eyes.

“Fuck,” Raen breathed, too shocked to even shout out. They shoved the cup into the hands of the nearest person, not even looking at them, and darted forward through the crowd to Ael’s side.

What should have been a triumphant end to the dance had become a flurry of shouts. Raen saw Ael snarl something at the third dancer, saw them spit words in return, then pushed through the crowd just in time for Ael to grab the dancer by the throat and shove them backwards against Raen’s chest.

“You little _iblith_ ,” said Ael. Sweat was trickling down her temple, breath still ragged from dancing. Raen caught the dancer by the arms, more from instinct than intent, fingers digging into their elbows against some hidden blade or other weapon. “May your feet one day fail you in battle.”

“You missed your own _xalli_ step,” the dancer spat back. They tried to wrench away from Raen’s hold, but Ael’s bared teeth invited violence and this sort of egregious error was exactly the sort of thing that party-ending fights could be born from.

“Daughter of House Maratus or not,” said Ael, which Raen supposed meant she was at least not threatening a scion of one of the eight Great Houses, “the Goddess will see your foolishness and make you pay for it.”

“Now, now,” said Magreyth, just when Raen thought they could not like the stand-off less. He stepped up, putting a hand brazenly on Ael’s arm even as she glared at him in turn, and looked between them. “That was as hard a nedeirra as I’ve ever contested. I’d be honoured to recontest it at Charel’s next meeting.”

Ael scanned his expression for a moment; from where they stood, Raen was not quite sure what she saw. In any case, after a moment she tilted her chin higher but released the throat of the woman in Raen’s hold. “If all of us are still invited,” she said with chill venom.

This time, when the dancer shook of Raen’s hold, they released her. “Keep your hands to yourself, slave-child,” she hissed.

Raen caught Ael by the arms before she could lunge after the other woman again, stepping clumsily into her path and bumping against her. They glanced over their shoulder to see the crowd parting about the dancer and still watching carefully.

“I am not worth it,” said Raen, quietly. “You worked hard for these nedeirra.”

The last thing they wanted Ael to do was throw away years of planning and of cultivating contacts because of the angry words of some House Maratus drow. Ael still gave them a frustrated look, but huffed heavily and reached up, letting Raen release her arm, to push back some of the loose hair at her neck.

Finally, she looked them properly up and done, and pulled the layer of her skirt from their arm. “Where is the drink?”

“I will fetch a new one,” said Raen.

They were aware of Magreyth still standing close by, as much as they tried not to be. He, too, was sweating heavily, the dark ormu about his eyes slightly smudged by the exertion. His smile was a little tight around the corners; probably not unwarranted, when the third dancer’s slip had cost him any triumph in winning just as much as it had cost Ael any chance. But Raen still bristled when he did not move away.

“Care to share one?” said Magreyth. Ael gave him a curious look, too intrigued for Raen’s liking. Magreyth’s shirt was all but transparent against his skin, revealing lean lines of muscle and a handful of faint scars that were doubtless from some approved story, some survival of pain that Magreyth would proudly speak of.

Raen’s left arm seemed to itch beneath its sleeve. Their jaw tightened. “I will be fetching the drink,” they said, as tersely as they dared to someone from such a House. Trying to poison Magreyth’s cup would be an astoundingly foolish move, of course, but the oblique reference to the potential for it was usually enough for most drow to reconsider being present when the drink was poured.

“Perhaps not share,” said Ael, gesturing for Raen to be silent. They bit their tongue to obey. “But you may have your drink and I, mine, and those we might drink together?”

Magreyth gave one of his pretty smiles, and Raen’s heart sank as Ael replied with a smile of her own. She slipped back on the outer layer of her skirt, veiling the lines of her thighs again, and Raen did not miss the glance down that Magreyth gave. “That sounds reasonable,” he said.

Music started up again, less hurried, and Raen spared a glance to see that Charel also looked to be working to smooth things over. Hopefully the story to come of the night would be of the other drow’s clumsiness, and not of Ael’s anger; with any luck, Raen thought, they might even be able to find out what the woman’s _name_ was, considering Ael clearly knew but equally clearly was too angry to be asked.

Ael waved a hand to Raen, and they reluctantly turned to lead the way back to the drinks once again. Raen saw some of the other party-goers still watching them, some discreetly, some rather less so. They went to retrieve drinks from under the watch of the Telemidae guard, who was now regarding them with vague interest, only for Magreyth to reach past and pick up an entire bottle. His body pressed against Raen’s side as he did so, the scent of some perfume mixed with sweat striking Raen in the same moment as the solid heat of his skin and the brush of his breath across the back of Raen’s neck.

Raen froze like a deafened darkmantle, not daring even to breathe as Magreyth leaned a hand between their shoulderblades as he leaned past. They risked glancing sideways just in time for Magreyth to catch their gaze and to _wink_ , and Raen flushed hot and completely missed the cup they were supposed to be picking up.

“Grab a second cup, would you?” said Magreyth, then straightened up again.

Raen dragged in a relieved breath, even if they could still feel the ghost of the warm touch against the centre of their back. The whole cavern was growing warmer with the number of people inside it, but then again a hot-palmed hand of someone fresh from an intense nedeirra was going to be warmer still. They grabbed two cups, gritted their teeth, and turned to face Ael once again.

“Let’s go find somewhere to sit,” Magreyth said, and Morrigan’s blood but Raen wanted to pull Ael’s curious, calculating gaze away from him. But they were only here at Ael’s request, and even far from here and in the family compound she was their senior, their better, their _sister_. If they could stand quietly aside through the vicious gossip, could watch for the knives they knew were hidden even here, then, they told themselves, they could tolerate Magreyth’s presence for a short while.

The natural cavern had been worked with spells over the years, deeper areas with cleared cups of stone large enough for two, or three, with relative privacy from the rest of the cave. The shape of the rock trapped in the sound of hushed conversations, and the rock had been reshaped over the years to make more comfortable seats. That said, Magreyth did not even bother searching for an empty seat and simply walked up to one of his choosing and ordered the three young drow inside to get out. From the muted cursing and scrambling sounds of clothing that even Raen, steps behind, could hear, he had clearly interrupted something rather more private than conversation. Margreyth smirked as he watched the three head further into the cavern, only one of them daring to glare at him for it.

With the slightest inviting nod to Ael, Magreyth slipped round and in, and Raen gave their sister one last slightly pleading look. Whether she did not see it, or ignored it, they could not say. But she stepped inside as well, laughing at some comment that Raen could not hear, and they were left with no real choice but to step in as well.

Magreyth lounged at the farthest end of the bench-like seat, one arm flung across one of the smaller, shelf-like ridges that formed the back of it. His hair was long, as befitted his station, longer than a warrior would wear and well-braided. Still in place, despite the nedeirra that left most of its participants all but dishevelled. In the gloom it was clearer that his silk shirt had been woven with subtle darkvision patterns hidden in the black, stylised curving spiderwebs that seemed to drape down over him like vines. The louche confidence was unbefitting a male drow, even one of such a great House, and mistrust roiled again in Raen’s gut at what Magreyth could mean by drawing the two of them aside. From their station, even their mother or grandmother would struggle to stand before the desires of the most minor figure of Magreyth’s House.

“Oh, she won’t know when to expect a thing,” Ael was saying, as Raen slipped in beside her. She had taken the centre of the seat, a merciful barrier between Raen and Magreyth’s heated presence but at the same time too exposed to any blade that might appear from his side. She sat with her back mostly to Raen, facing Magreyth totally, but reached back to take the cups smoothly from their hand all the same. “The anticipation will be punishment enough for now.”

Raen sat down awkwardly behind Ael, her back to one side of them and the curve of the wall to the other. Sound coming in was muffled, as well, and they disliked the way that it left them feeling exposed.

“Some folks are imaginative enough to create their own punishment,” said Magreyth, sounding amused. Raen could at least see less of him from this angle, although in the confined space the warmth of bodies and the smell of perfume quickly wound together. Raen leant back against the wall, set their eyes on the stone opposite, and curled one hand into a fist beside them.

“Here.” Ael reached up to draw one of the pins from her hair, then slipped the tiny serrated blade that it concealed free of its sheath. “I can open that.”

“Always good to be prepared at these events,” said Magreyth. Doubtless he, too, had a blade on him; Raen did as well, and Raen was unlikely to be a target to anyone. “I’m truly sorry about how the nedeirra turned out. A disappointment for all. My, you open that with a practised hand.”

Ael tossed aside the cork of woody fungus, with its wax seal, that had kept the bottle closed. “I pick up skills wherever I can,” she said, though he doubtless knew exactly who their family were and why either of them would have been able to open the bottle with ease.

Raen heard the sound of cups being filled, and reached out expecting to be given the cup to taste. But their hand met nothing but air, and looked round to see Ael drinking, carelessly, still with her eyes boring into Magreyth.

“I haven’t been to one of Charel’s parties for several moons,” he said. “Have they all been as eventful as this one?”

Small talk, then, or what passed for it among the greater Houses of the city. Raen leant back and let their attention slip, tuning out the exact words that Magreyth chose to meander through. Between the aftermath of the nedeirra and the continued unease of sharing such a narrow space with Magreyth, Raen could still feel tension coiled in their muscles, tightness around their chest. Even ignoring Magreyth’s words did not get rid of his voice, a confident low murmur of sound that too perfectly fit his inappropriate behaviour and his resultant reputation.

But it was not Raen’s place to point that out to Ael; she knew well enough, after all. Instead they were left to listen to her soft-voiced replies, and to realise with increasing discomfort that it was the tone that Ael used to humour those who chose to make advances upon her.

Usually, Ael had better taste in those she allowed to approach her. True, at their age casual involvements had been all she had ever sought, but even aside from his _ascus_ reputation Magreyth had the added danger of being from a powerful House.

But there she was, laughing softly, replying to his jokes with teasing tones of her own. Ael was as good as any scion of a major House when it came to talking without letting any real substance through, and Raen did not need to listen to her words to know which way the conversation was turning. They looked over to the exit to the nook, where distant darkfire cast faint shadows on the stone that flickered and moved through abstract patterns. Standing guard outside, where at least they would not be trapped with the scent that Magreyth wore and his low voice, was looking preferable right now.

It would give them something other than the wall to look at, as well.

“Raen,” said Ael, jolting them from their thoughts. They snapped round, guilt panging in their chest that their attention had wandered at all, but she was smiling and looking more relaxed than they had seen her at many of these nedeirra. She handed them the cup. “Magreyth pointed out that I was neglecting your parched mouth as well.”

“I cannot claim the same dance to have caused thirst,” they replied, though they did accept the drink. “And I am here as your attendant.”

An apology, of a sort, for speaking against Magreyth earlier and for something else still churning in their chest. Magreyth’s eyes were darker red than was common, ormu making them striking in the darkness. A male spider bold or arrogant enough to weave his own web.

“I know of others who share cups,” said Magreyth. “An elegant solution, if one trusts the other party.”

“Blood runs pure,” said Ael.

Amusement flickered in Magreyth’s eyes. “And seed unsure,” he finished.

Raen swallowed abruptly; the words were implied, yet, but were not _spoken_ , least of all by the very male drow it denigrated. A cough forced its way out, and their eyes watered for a beat, but they managed not to choke entirely on someone else’s words.

With a sigh, though, Ael all but snatched the cup from their hand again.

“Are you twins, then?” said Magreyth, as if he had said nothing at all. “I feel like I would have heard from Charel if you were, and yet you seem so close in age…”

“Not quite,” Ael said, with a smooth smile as Raen collected themselves again. They could still feel Magreyth’s gaze brushing over their skin, no matter the shirt that should have stood firmly in the way. “Though we are only one turn of the web apart. I like to think that we only narrowly missed out.”

“Or one of you has more patience than the other,” he said.

“Patience is useful,” said Ael. “As long as it does not become fear.”

Magreyth sat up from his lounge and leaned forwards, close enough to Ael that Raen, in her position, would have drawn back. But she met his approach without wavering, faces just inches apart as Raen watched, wary again and thinking of the knife in their boot. “I feel like you and I, Lady Eresidae, are going to have some very fruitful conversations in the future.”

Ael’s eyes were steadfast; it was Raen who glanced down to Magreyth’s lips, soft and just tinged with the colour of the wine they were drinking. But it was Ael that Magreyth kissed, too bold for a male no matter his standing, and Ael who kissed him back with a smile still visible at the corner of her mouth. She pressed into him, fingers curling possessively around his upper arm, and Raen looked away with their jaw growing sore from clenched teeth. They had stood watch outside for Ael at times like this before, the fact that it was Magreyth should not matter overmuch…

Just as they were readying to stand, mercifully, Ael broke the kiss again and laughed softly. “I do believe so,” she murmured back.

Raen’s stomach dropped the hardest it had since they had humiliated themselves in the melee nearly two decades before. The last thing they wanted was to be seeing more of Magreyth around, but they had the feeling that in more than one sense, that was going to be exactly what would happen. Even as Ael gestured for them both to leave the rock cubby, Raen felt a scowl settling into place, and kept their back to Ael and Magreyth both in the hope that it would be less obvious, somehow less obvious, in a moment or two.

He doubted that it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Iblith_ \- Drowic word meaning "offal", "excrement", or an insult usually used for non-drow. Appears in _Drow of the Underdark_ , and a couple of Drizz't novels.  
>  _xalli_ \- Undercommon word meaning "pain" or disgust". Appears in By Any Other Name: Races of the Underdark.


	6. Youth, 70s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got called "Repressed Bisexual Sulking Part Two" in my notes.

“You are a shit liar, Raen,” said Ael.

Raen had hoped that, if Ael did not bother to chastise them on the way home from the nedeirra, she was simply going to let their own considerable guilt for their behaviour deal with them. But no, apparently a day or two to age the guilt was all that she needed before waiting in Raen’s room for them at the end of a frustrating day of trying to source materials which Nysanlin said were essential for her next project.

“And what have I tried to lie about this time?” they said. They shrugged off their cloak to hang it up, rolling their sore left shoulder. “If it is about the errands I was running today, I assure you they were all real, as absurd as they sounded.”

“About Magreyth,” said Ael pointedly. She leant against the wall and folded her arms.

Raen kept their back to her, crossing instead to pick up a hairbrush. It would give them reason to look busy, at least. “I have said nothing about him,” they said. They pulled out some of the bands from their hair to let it fall loose again.

“You _didn’t_ say quite enough the night of the nedeirra itself. Come on, then, say what you wish to about him.”

For a moment, Raen hesitated, hand just resting on the handle of the brush. Ael knew them too well to let them lie their way out, and they were not good at evading anyone’s words at the best of times. They sighed, perched against the table, and let their hands fall to their legs as they looked at her levelly. “Why him? You have plenty who compete for your attention – even among Charel’s circle of guests. Plenty who do not come with his… history.”

“It is not your bed, what do you care of his history?” she retorted.

Heat rose in Raen’s cheeks again as Ael raised her eyebrows. She swung from amusement to irritation that Raen did not like to talk as bluntly as she did, but she did not have their reasons; female drow might be taken to House by someone of a greater name, certainly, but the presumed heir to a family? Not so much. Raen was fair game to any female drow – and when it came to circles like Charel’s, to male or trisbryd alike who could simply have a sister or cousin ask on their behalf.

Ael did not have to face the idea of being torn from her House, of being handed a new name and expected to wear it. Never quite trusted by the new House as a result, suspected of torn loyalties, and waiting to fall from favour again. Raen knew they would not have the nous to make themselves important or central to some new House. The thought of being adrift between Houses was as close to death as Raen cared to picture.

They took a breath and squared their shoulders. It was not often that they spoke back to Ael; hopefully she would recognise from that alone that this was important. “I do not care about his history,” they said. “I care about you. Fickle and–” they raised their voice over her scoffing “– _Ael_ , fickle and powerful is a dangerous combination, and the Goddess knows he is both.”

“I think you mistake fickle for something else, Raen,” she said, but even when Raen looked at her pointedly did not offer what it was. “And I am not some highborn who needs a bodyguard – no, do not you start scoffing now,” she snapped, angrily, when the sound escaped before Raen could stop it. “I swear, you forgot sometimes that I have my own fangs.”

Raen could not help but shake their head, though. Not when they were bodyguard in all but name; bodyguard and messenger and when all else failed maid and hair-styler. But there was a taste like fear in the back of their mouth, that if Ael became disenchanted with them after all these years then they would have precious few allies even within their own family. Echmedrin liked them most, perhaps, but she would barely be much of a power in their favour.

“I know, sister.” The title carefully put in, an echo of Magreyth’s words _Lady Eresidae_ lingering on the verge of their thoughts. “But if it comes to this… I would rather risk mine on the carapaces of Houses like his.” They got to their feet and walked across, while Ael remained leaning in place and frowning at them, and reached to take her hand. “If fangs are to be broken, let them be mine and not yours.”

Finally, her expression softened, and she allowed them to take her hand properly. “I will not let anyone break your fangs, Raen. If you are that concerned, then you are free to stand guard for us;” which they could not very well refuse when they had willingly stood guard for other trysts. “But I have reason to believe,” and now she took both of their hands, instead, thumbs pressing hard against their knuckles, “that he has more intents to _talk_ with me than to _screw_ with me.”

The heat which had almost ebbed from Raen’s cheeks flared up again, and from Ael’s glance she did not miss it. “It – it is his _words_ which concern me.”

“Really?” said Ael dryly. “You are sure it is not his cock?”

“The – the last thing I am worried about,” Raen managed to stammer out, words almost crashing into each other on their tongue, “is any part of his body.”

Ael put a hand on their cheek, pointed again. Raen jerked away as if that would somehow make the blush there less obvious. At least Ael did not point out that Raen had seemed more than worried enough when Magreyth had pressed briefly against them while reaching for a drink. Raen was not sure how much of _that_ conversation they would be able to take.

“I am worried about his _mind_ ,” they pressed on. “Are you not always telling me that is the most dangerous part of truly dangerous people?”

“You listen to me at the worst of moments,” said Ael, with a shake of her head. “Look, you may have your concerns if you wish, and I am not going into this some wide-eyed naïf. But you will not change my mind about what I do or with whom, and by now I would have hoped you would have learned that.”

There was just a hint of venom on the last of her words, a warning note that Raen knew they had to heed.

“And for that matter,” said Ael, releasing their hands to take a scroll from her belt and pass it to Raen. “I need you to deliver this message. And yes, it is for Magreyth, before you even ask.”

“You have already established your codes, then,” said Raen flatly. They took the scroll from her hand, not even pretending good grace.

“Of course. We mooted speaking again well before the end of our conversation, but he wanted me to consider it. I have done so. This is my reply.”

Raen could feel Ael’s eyes, all piercing lilac, searching for something in them. They did not know what it was, let alone whether she would find it, and turned away to go back and finish what theyhad started with their hair. “Very well. I will deliver it before the spire grows dark, once I am fit to be seen in such districts.” They gestured to their clothes, dusty boots and a plain, heavy-duty tabard. “Right now I would probably be arrested for trespassing.”

Ael snorted, but it was derision more than amusement, which was probably all about they deserved. “Do not get it into your head to misdirect that message, Raen.”

It – no, it did not sting, it hurt, like a blow to the gut. Raen swallowed on a dry mouth at the warning in Ael’s words, at the _mistrust_ , mistrust she had never suggested in all the years since…

Since they had been fifteen, and shown Ael just how much she could trust them.

Raen tasted acid in the back of their throat, and fought to keep their hands from shaking as they retook to combing out their hair. “Of course I will deliver it,” they said, words mumbled, but at least Ael gave a satisfied nod and swept to leave.

Their hair gave away the shaking of their fingers, and they gave up for a moment, sinking into the chair in front of their desk instead and putting their head in their hands. All this over Magreyth, _Magreyth_ of all drow, over some pretty rich boy who would be a relief were he gone within a moon but who had no good reason, and plenty of terrible ones, to single out Ael for his attention. There had been no good reason for Raen to have objected to Peytirros, to Theya, to whoever else there had been – and so they had not objected. But over Magreyth, of all fools, it seemed they had come dangerously close to losing Ael’s favour after all this time.

They swallowed until they felt less inclined to vomit, until the fear of losing Ael, of her turning away, was not such a weight on their ribs. She was angry, that was all. With any luck all Raen’s concerns would be for nought, Magreyth’s attention would move onwards as quickly as it always did, and with time the tension between them would fade. Perhaps, decades from now, Ael would laugh and ruffle Raen’s hair for their protectiveness.

But they could not shake the fear that Magreyth, with those knowing dark eyes and that effortless control of his body, had something else altogether planned.

Raen delivered the message, handing it off to an Orslobidae servant, a drow, who passed a short slip of message in response. Clearly Magreyth had been waiting for Ael’s response – and had people enough to spare one just to await it. Ael seemed pleasantly surprised at the immediate note, plucking it from Raen’s hands and even gracing them with a smile for bringing it. Raen waited for a moment, quickly checking the fingertips of their gloves for the smell of any poisons but not daring to mention Ael’s bare hands.

Ael’s smile only grew at the sight of whatever was written on the note, however, before she let a candle’s flame devour it. She waved Raen away, and they retreated still mistrustful but knowing better than to say anything more overt unless they had some new good evidence that Magreyth was up to something untoward.

Within days, a message returned, another servant with the Orslobidae crest passing a scroll to Raen while they were mid-argument with a trader in the bazaar over the price of some fabric for new straining bags. The only good thing Raen could say was that the trader seemed more inclined to lower the price after seeing such an apparently casual exchange with an Orslobidae member. Unfortunately, it only made it clear that Magreyth and Ael had cemented some mutual interest, and in no time at all it was another night of Raen carefully braiding and arranging Ael’s hair, weaving in the hecatolite and tanzanite beads that brought out the colour of her eyes.

They slipped out as the city plunged slipped closer to darkness, darkfire dimming all around the city until the glow of Kyorbblivvin could be seen lighting the outer edges of Narbondellyn buildings. Raen kept their mutinous anger curled away behind the most impassive face they could muster as they slipped down quiet alleys and to Narbondellyn, to the Orslobidae-owned mansion that Ael had said was their destination.

They had been to one or two parties there, although Charel’s parties were more regular and the ones to which Ael was always welcomed. But instead of bright lights and spilling music, the mansion was mostly quiet, only a faint glimmer of darkfire at one of the window frames upstairs and two bugbear guards, fully armoured and armed, standing at the front door.

One of them opened it as Ael approached, and Raen felt another bristle of anger at the sheer _presumptuousness_ of it all. But Ael was smiling, looking _pleased_ , sweeping between the guards as if she were the one who owned them. Raen fell into place behind her, giving the bugbears the best warning glare they could muster and trying to look as if they had any confidence in dealing with the creatures.

“Glad to see you here,” said Magreyth.

Raen snapped around at the sound of his voice; Magreyth stood at the top of the sweeping staircase, with more casual confidence than Raen had ever thought a male drow could exude. Even from the distance, Raen could see that he was dressed in silk, woven with darkvision patterns, shirt so fine as to almost be sheer and silhouette him beneath. Magreyth’s eyes roamed over them both, only settling on Ael as she slipped off her cape to reveal her own fine gown beneath. Raen took the cape as it was passed to them, and Magreyth made a lazy gesture to a small room which Raen took to be the cloakroom.

“It would have been the height of rudeness to turn down such an… impassioned request,” said Ael.

The look in her eyes, like she wanted to devour him whole, became unsettling when it came to rest on Magreyth. Raen stepped into the empty cloakroom, everything meticulously ordered and clean, the only cobwebs the metal ornamental sort. Magreyth said something in return, which Raen made sure not to listen to the words of, but rather than a reply there was the soft sound of kissing and murmured laughter.

Raen let their head fall back and their eyes fall closed, breathing out firmly. It had been inevitable, of course it had, inevitable since the moment that Magreyth had suggested that they share a drink. But however awkward Raen had found themselves feeling when Ael spoke of her other conquests – awkward enough that she had at times dismissed them and turned to a cousin to gloat instead – it was nothing compared to the coiling in their gut and the almost pulsing heat in their cheeks as embarrassment and anger vied within them.

Ael… Ael deserved a better sort of attention than that of some _ascus_ male drow whose eyes would be elsewhere before the moon was out. While it was never truly possible to separate the sexual from the political, Magreyth’s powerful House made his political dangers all the more significant, and the drawn-out pseudo-courtship had set Raen’s teeth on edge with how deliberate it all was. Ael had plenty of better drow making her less dangerous offers; surely not even Magreyth’s pretty features could be worth such a risk?

But Ael had always calculated risks differently than Raen had. Something in her seemed to understand them in a different light.

If they kept thinking, they could ignore the sounds from outside. They lowered their head and pinched the bridge of their nose, hauling their thoughts together to go through the list of tasks that they needed to do the following day. This year’s harvest was barely a moon away, and they were already green harvesting in places to concentrate the flavour of the shadowdrupe and the buzz of the faerzress into the remaining fruit. They were already trying to get this year’s group of kobolds into something like a working team, and Raen’s handful of words of Draconic had proved little help in getting them to behave themselves.

They were drawn from their grim contemplation of how best to use Heredwynn’s threats to their advantage by the sound of their name. Sparing a brief grimace at the annoyance in Ael’s voice, Raen composed themselves and exited the cloakroom again to find Ael with a hand wrapped tightly around Magreyth’s upper arm even while as she gave Raen a warning look.

“There you are,” said Magreyth, and from anyone else Raen might have appreciated the soothing tone but it did not much help when he was the cause of this in the first place. “I was beginning to worry you might have gotten lost somewhere.”

“We’ve been to this place once or twice before,” said Ael. “Raen, I would rather you remain here than go home and return at such an hour. Magreyth has kindly stated that the lower floor is open to you.”

So gracious, then. Raen made the mistake of catching Magreyth’s gaze, the smouldering deliberation there sparking something tight and uncomfortable in their chest. They swallowed and fixed their eyes on the line of his ear instead. “I thank you for your consideration.”

The words could have been worse, all things considered; they came out clipped but still polite enough, a tone that Raen had spent many years perfecting but which was apparently finding itself strained to its limits when faced with Magreyth.

“Feel free to… entertain yourself,” said Magreyth, and Raen felt heat rising in their cheeks again. They steadfastly ignored the innuendo that he managed to pour into every word, and simply nodded.

Ael cleared her throat quietly, and Raen snapped their attention round. “I will summon you when we are to return home.”

“Of course.”

Without another word, she turned her eyes back to Magreyth, and Raen saw the hunger creep into her eyes again. She would be nothing if not forthright, they knew that, and gave a quick nod by way of parting before heading straight for the closest door that did not lead to the cloakroom. They had not even finished opening the door before Ael was asking what Magreyth had waiting upstairs, and stepped through to close it behind them as quickly as they could.

Mercifully, it was not a cupboard, although Raen knew they would still have waited there until, at least, they had heard them both climb the stairs. Magreyth would doubtless have known and just as doubtless have found it funny, but at least avoiding Ael’s disappointed look would have been worth it.

Instead, it was a great rectangular hall of a room, probably meant for illiyitrii or large family gatherings. The floor was finely polished stone, whisper-quiet but not slippery underfoot, with vaulting tall walls to a ceiling that was decorated with stylised imitations of stalactites. Too regular to be the real thing, more pleasing to the eye. In the dark room, they were only faint shapes, but something about the textures made memories flicker in Raen’s mind.

Searching about their person produced a chip of glowing fungus; Raen flicked it into the air and traced a quick shape in the air with their left hand. A murmured word, and the fungus puffed out into pale green dancing lights that floated serenely up to weave among the fake stone.

 _That_ was what Raen had remembered. When light shone through and between the stalactites, they came alive, some shimmering softly, others casting spiderweb shadows across the floor below. Some of them took the light and shifted its hue, painting dappled colours across the room. Raen seemed to remember that one controlled pattern of faerie fire could form multiple nedeirra circles if placed correctly, but that was more magic than they had or sought.

A shape among the shadows on the floor caught Raen’s eye, and they carefully wove back the dancing lights until the House Orslobidae crest stood crystal-clear across the centre of the floor.

“Well,” Raen murmured, “you have to admire the artistry.”

There were stone benches against the walls, their legs carved like spiders holding up the plinths. Some had cushions laid out on them, but Raen avoided them in favour of one where they could see everything. Even then, they sat down cautiously, never quite trusting anything on the property of another House. But even Magreyth, with the sense of humour of a noble, would surely know better than let Raen walk themselves into injury or harm on their property. It would be considered distasteful, cowardly rather than intelligent, and if nothing else would undo whatever favour of Ael’s he had gathered in the last days.

Raen leant back against the wall and let their lights weave back and forth. The enchantments were certainly impressive, they had to say that; they felt a momentary twinge of envy for those who had the skills or innate power needed to study arcane magics. Divine magic of course belonged only for the Priestesses of the Morrigan and those paladins chosen as Her champions, but arcana gave at least a few more drow the opportunity to grow their skills.

Arcana would never be considered as great a calling, of course, and none in the city would match the power of the Matron Mother of House Aranea, head of the Priestesses. But there was still more out there than a handful of dancing lights.

Raen wasn’t sure whether or not they actually desired that sort of power. That sort of target painted on their back. But at least the thought of _change_ was interesting, the open worlds of books beyond the walls of the great cave that held their city.

But the power would be… too much. Raen had seen what even the lower-ranking priestesses could do. Spread rot through someone’s body with a touch. Hold a person in place. Cast magic that made it impossible to lie to them.

It was tantalising and terrifying, in the same way that Ael’s plans for power seemed to be. Too much for the likes of them.

They had seen a priestess once, a more senior one, standing over bound victims ready for sacrifice. She had called the power of a yochlol into her, tendrils of magic striking down into the bodies around her in coordinated, sickening thrusts. It had been several turns of the web since then, but the image remained in Raen’s head, stark, the priestess’s eyes glowing as red as her magic.

They were jostled from their thoughts by a solid thud, and a burst of laughter, from above them. What could – no. Raen put aside the dangerous question before they could let their mind attempt to answer it, and steadfastly did not think of Magreyth’s warm hand against their back, of the smell of the perfume he wore.

Pushed aside the creeping thoughts of him.

It was… unfitting, that was it, for a male drow. Showing forwardness and deliberation both which his gender did not deserve to show, acting in ways that he would certainly never get away with were he from anything but the greatest of Houses. Raen felt heat rising in their cheeks, in their chest, as they wrested aside the thought of Magreyth’s body pressed against them at the nedeirra. Heated and damp with exertion, breathing still slightly quickened and tickling against the skin at the nape of Raen’s neck. Too clear, like remembering a predator leaning over its prey.

Raen let their dancing lights drop and reached up to rub one temple. It was going to be a long stay here, if such thoughts were going to haunt them. With any luck, Ael would get Magreyth out of her system and perhaps even be the one to walk away from _him_ for once, but Raen knew that their luck had been in drastically short supply in this matter.

Apparently, the supply was shorter still. As the sounds from above became distinctly more _rhythmic_ in nature, Raen sighed louder than they needed to and got back to their feet. Walking around the lower storey abruptly seemed much more inviting than remaining in any one place. They let their steps make deliberate noise as they crossed the hall until one of the servant entrances caught their eye and their curiosity, mercifully, found something new to latch onto.

Houses that were so large as to have servants were a rarer breed. Whether servant passages and ways would actually be interesting was not at all certain, but it sounded much better than sitting listening to sounds they did not wish to hear with angry heat building under their skin. The only good thing they could think was that, at least, they were not outside the very door of the room itself.

As it turned out, the empty servants’ passages and rooms were not particularly interesting, but they did at least give Raen somewhere to pace as time dragged on. Flashes of anger at Magreyth interspersed themselves with a slower-burning frustration about the lost hours that could have been better spent working or at least in a trance, to address the weariness in their bones. That tiredness would only get worse as the harvest neared, they knew full well, and work would not abate for some time afterwards either.

It was different, for drow women. There was never total freedom, of course, each drow answering to her mother, to her Matron Mother; Matron Mothers bound by the expectations of leadership based upon them and the weight of more powerful Houses above. The greatest House of all, House Aranea to which all the priestesses pledged themselves, watched down over the web of the city and felt the trembling of any prey foolish enough to tangle themselves in threads of broken laws.

If Ael had been a different sort of mind, it would of course have been possible for a cousin or an aunt to take her place as presumed heir to the Eresidae position of Matron Mother. But even if their mother’s position had once seemed shaky, as Ael had come into her own it had cemented Euna’s place as well. Matron Mother Dumaesa was starting to become quite clear in her favour for Ael, and with only a couple of turns of the web until Ael came of age her thoughts had turned to increasing responsibility and increasing power.

Yelsetra was gone twenty turns of the web, now, starting to court the Matron Mother’s permission to take a favourite of her own, to have children. As the eldest female grandchild and some skill in business, she had some favour, but she barely bothered to hide her anger at how Ael, not even of adult age, was fast becoming the favourite. But when Bregwyn had only been given permission to have two children…

The politics of women were complicated, and Raen did not envy them. Though Ael was younger than two of their female cousins, she was the only daughter of an eldest daughter, and that counted.

 _Blood runs pure_.

The oblique reminder of Magreyth’s words, of Magreyth, was enough to make their cheeks flush again. They stopped, in the quiet stillness of an empty corridor, and put their hands over their face for a moment of annoyance with themselves.

Ael would one day have children, that much was certain. The majority of drow women could look forward to such a thing, to having their line continue and to progressing to the role of Mother within their family. Fewer would ever become Matron Mother, of course, but there was still the potential. Ael would take favourites, she would take drow men to house, she would have children. She would be Matron Mother one day – and no, that one was not so certain, but she willed it and Raen would fight fang and claw to see that the world followed her will. But for her, of all women, it was only a matter of time.

Raen needed to be sure to still be within the House when that happened. Male drow could all but expect to enter a different House, of course; female drow could be secure that it would almost certainly not happen; for trisbryd drow, the truth lay somewhere in between, opportunity for both, risk of either, Raen was not sure how to think of it. If they were to have the desire to offer themselves to someone of better standing, to seek out to be taken to house by someone of a more major House than their own… yes, it would be possible.

But that was not for them, not suited to their skills, not suited to their desires. Ael had promised that she would never let them be taken to house by another, and Raen doubted their mother cared overmuch but had good hope she would rule in favour of what Raen wanted and keep them within the Eresidae name. If nothing else, Raen knew they were useful.

If it were not for the danger of their grandmother’s anger…

Still, if nobody were to seek to take Raen to house, there was not exactly a way in which she could force them out. It would raise too many questions whose scandal their House was not exactly large enough to bear. So it had been, all in all, a relatively simple choice to keep both their body and their eyes to themselves.

But one which Ael did not seem to understand. At least, not to judge by the way that she had first laughed, then teased, then become frustrated as Raen had turned further and further away from engaging in flirtatious play, dressing to draw the eye, or even speaking of such matters. It was not that they found it _distasteful_ , as she had more than once accused them. But they could not very well have said that the thought was too alluring, the desire for physical contact, the urge to run their finger’s down someone’s back or along the line of their jaw.

It was not… it was not _never_. One day, once their grandmother had passed and a new Matron Mother led House Eresidae, Raen was at least fairly sure they would be able to… to live that life. True, Matron Mother Dumaesa’s health was good, and there was little reason to think she might not see another twenty or thirty turns of the web. And it was abhorrent to think of _wanting_ one’s Matron Mother to die; even the faint yearning that Raen felt to have a different head of their House was uneasy enough to experience. But one day, albeit one day when their own youth would be gone, Raen hoped that they would feel sure enough that their Matron Mother would not agree to have them taken to house by another. And then…

It would not do to linger on such thoughts. Raen had on one occasion allowed themselves elaborate daydreams of what they could one day have, but the wracking loss of the daydreams had simply not been worth it. The loneliness alone– 

Loneliness that was biting again, harder than it had before when Ael’s attention had been diverted for a while. Then again, even if Raen had been awkward when she wanted to discuss her exploits, they had not outright objected. Perhaps it was her anchor they were missing, as they drifted not just around the empty Orslobidae mansion but around their own hollow thoughts.

It seemed far too long until they caught the sound of their name just on the edge of their attention, and hurried back through the empty halls to the bottom of the stairs. By the time that they arrived, Magreyth was already draping Ael’s cloak about her shoulders; Raen did not miss the smug smile on her lips, but also could not help seeing the loose tousle of Magreyth’s hair, the beginning of bruises appearing around the base of his neck, or the rumpled look about his clothes. It was as bad as his sweat-glossy skin at the nedeirra and worse, and whether or not it was their imagination that they could smell the sex on the air beneath the mingled perfumes, Raen did not wish to ask.

“There you are,” said Ael, tearing Raen’s eyes away from Magreyth. Probably for the best; looking too long at him was probably about as foolish as looking too long at a drow woman. “Come, let us return home, there is still plenty of time to trance before the night is through.”

“I look forward to any message you are kind enough to honour me with,” Magreyth said. Ael looked him up and down, then stepped back in and kissed his mouth again.

Clenching their jaw, Raen averted their eyes. It did not much help with the sound, however, either of the kiss or of the self-satisfied murmur that followed it. When they heard the whisper of fabric, however, they looked back up in time to meet Ael’s gaze. She looked vaguely approving.

“I rather think I will be sending one,” she said. Slipping her hand out of Magreyth’s, she gave Raen a pointed look until they stepped up to offer their arm. Magreyth flicked their hand towards the front door, and dancing lights lit up outside; a moment later, the door was opened by one of the bugbear guards, and with a painful and relieving finality Ael swept them from the house.

The streets outside were dark, only faint lights from unshuttered windows and the glow of the ever-present faery fire to light their way. The world faded back to monotone, textures standing out more sharply in the gloom. Raen held their tongue, though they could feel their shoulders growing stiff with tension, as they picked their way through the streets. There were sounds of shouting somewhere in the distance, but sound carried in the great cavern of the city, and it was easy enough to tell that, at least for tonight, it was far off.

“Well?” said Ael finally, when they were more than halfway home and Raen had just been starting to hope they would make it there without challenge. “Are you not going to ask me whether I regret tonight’s endeavours?”

Raen was not sure whether she was being serious, or whether it was close to mocking. Their stomach twisted. “I would like to think that I have more sense than that,” they replied.

They dared a glance down towards her, but Ael was not looking round, her expression quite serene still as she scanned the road ahead. Her braids had stayed well enough in place, at least, Raen noted.

“Well, next time, please do not make such threats with your eyes when you see him. Anyone would think there was a beholder in our ancestry.”

In a public street, even with nobody around, Raen suppressed a wince. “I–” they began, then caught themselves. Curled their free hand into a fist, out of Ael’s sight. “I have said my piece. I simply hope that he… does not give me reason to bare my fangs for you.”

“And what would it take to make you put away your venom, hmm?”

There was a tone in her voice that Raen did not quite understand, and that discomforted them more than her previous frustration had done. They swallowed. Honesty would be the best response with Ael, was always what they wanted to give her as their sister, but they did not know what to say. Beyond moving on and turning his attention elsewhere… but Raen could tell that was not what Ael meant. She wanted to know how, if, Magreyth might somehow enter Raen’s trust.

“I… believe it is always said that one should keep up one’s guard around the Great Houses,” they said carefully.

“True words,” said Ael. It still sounded like the way that she spoke to others, though, veiled words and double-meanings, and Raen hated it. It was not meant to be like this, between them. They were her late twin, she was their protector, it had been that way for… so long. And it was breaking because of what Magreyth was doing to them both.

Well, mostly because of what he was _doing_ to Ael, of course, but all _that_ thought did was make Raen flush again.

They did not know what to say to her. What words to offer, what explanation to give. What words they could even put to the trembling hot anger that Magreyth put beneath their skin, the sense of wrongness he seemed to put into their world. It had been stable for some four turns of the web; why, now, was Magreyth proving so difficult?

Raen held their tongue, kept their arm in Ael’s, and let silence swallow them up as they made their way home.


	7. Age 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How dare English not appropriately convey the gender politics and pronouns of this fictional society with its fictional language?! *shakes head at self* Short version: everyone under 16 get's they/them. Over that age, it's up to you to be stating your own pronouns, and folks inside your family will know a lot sooner than those outside.
> 
> The area for killing people in the name of the Morrigan is called the Sacrificial Hallow, and would literally be under the Hallow spell with the Fear effect in place. Nasty stuff.
> 
> For this chapter at least, italics is the drow language, everything else is assumed to be in Undercommon.

“You are eight now, Raen,” said Ael, carefully adjusting their hair. “It is about time that you came to the dedications to the Goddess.”

A full turn of the web, and halfway to no longer being considered a child. Raen almost went to break out into a smile as Ael brushed down their shoulders, then held back. Important, this was important. Ael herself already _was_ sixteen, with grown-up hair and wearing jewellery, while Raen was just happy that they were wearing new clothing rather than Hersa’s hand-me-downs.

It was only simple, of course, but Hersa was bigger and stronger and their clothes never fit well. Cousin Shari refused to sew, and their sister Kei wasn’t very good at it, but Cousin Nya had taken the time to show Raen how to do the sewing themselves even though they were older than would usually be helping to look after children.

“Will R _evered Matron Mother Dumaesa_ be there?” Raen said their grandmother’s title in Drow, in the middle of the Undercommon. Undercommon was much easier, and the slaves were more likely to know it which made them easier to order around.

“No,” said Ael. She paused in front of the mirror of her room, then adjusted the silver necklaces she was wearing. They looked pretty against her skin. “Mother Euna and Mother Bregwyn are attending.”

That sounded less scary. Raen knew what the dedications to the Goddess were, criminals and bad people who had disobeyed the Goddess being killed to honour her. But Matron Mother Dumaesa was scarier. She was the one who could give _Raen_ to the Goddess, after all, if Raen did something that was too bad.

She stood up straight and held out her hand to Raen. “Come on, then.”

They took her hand, smiling widely, but she raised an eyebrow and they caught themselves again. Dedications to the Goddess were very serious, after all.

Ael led them down the stairs, and Raen’s happiness dimmed when they saw Kersa waiting in the hallway as well. Cousin Yeseltra was behind them, her hand on their shoulder, talking politely to Mother Bregwyn and to Cousin Nya. It was good to see Kei there as well, though, and she gave Raen a smile.

“Mother Euna is telling Matron Mother Dumaesa that we are ready,” said Kei, as Ael and Raen joined her. Raen knew they were lucky to have two sisters who weren’t even that much older than them, especially since they didn’t think they were going to be a woman like them. “We’ll be leaving shortly.”

Raen concentrated on not fidgeting as they waited for their mother to return. Only Yeseltra and Bregwyn were speaking now, and Raen picked a corner of the room where the stone was slightly dappled and imagined drawing spiderwebs in the patterns of the colours. There was a tiny bit of embroidery on the end of their sleeve, and they ran their fingers back and forth across it. There wasn’t anyone in the family younger than them, at least not at the moment, so they hoped it would fit them for a while so they would get to keep it.

Luckily, it didn’t take too long until Mother Euna emerged from a door at the far end of the hallway, Ilifen in her wake. She turned to tell him to do something, and he gave a respectful nod before turning back into the house.

Ilifen was… strange. Raen knew that he was their mother’s current Favourite, which was a word that seemed to have more than one meaning depending on quite how it was said, and he had been with House Eresidae for nearly three turns of the spider now. But sometimes Mother Euna would still call him by his old surname when she was angry – or at least, Ael said that she did, while Raen had sat wide-eyed because they did not even get to see or hear their mother that often.

Now, they looked at her as she led the group from the room, grimlock guard sloping along behind them.

Ael leant over as they made their way through the streets, leaning close. “One of the people to be Dedicated to the Goddess was found committing a crime against House Nicodamidae,” she said.

“ _Mother House, blood of our blood_ ,” said Raen immediately in Drow. Matron Mother Dumaesa had been of House Nicodamidae once, and as long as she still lived it would be considered their Mother House. They could just about remember learning to say the names properly, when they had been very young. They couldn’t remember a time before they had known to add the Drow phrases onto the end.

“Exactly,” said Ael. “So it’s important that we send enough people to show that we are thankful for the criminal being caught.” She glanced around, then leaned further like she was telling a secret. Raen looked up, hand tightening in hers, knowing that they were only a few paces away from the others. “And,” Ael added, barely above a whisper, “she wants to show off you and me.”

“Us?” Raen’s eyes went wide. Ael gave a secretive, warm smile, and nodded.

“Yes, little one, us. We are only one turn of the spider apart, after all, and now you are one turn of the spider old. That makes us lucky.” She squeezed their hand, then tugged them back towards the others. “Come on, let’s not fall behind.”

Raen had seen the Dedications before, of course. But it had been from far away, and usually after the screaming had stopped. It was different to get to go all the way up the steps cut into the cliffs of rock lakewards of Duthcloim, still holding Ael’s hand, seeing people occasionally glancing in the direction of their family as they made their way there.

At one point, Ael peered over at the great column of Narbondel, probably to see how high the light had reached. Raen did not know what time the dedications were supposed to happen, but since Ael did not look worried it looked like they were not running late.

They had never actually been to the top of the cliffs before. It was hard to see much at first over the crowds of people, but above the talking Raen could hear the occasional scream. That was probably from the people to be dedicated, they knew that much. The crowd parted for Mother Euna, and Ael tugged Raen closer as their party slipped through. More people were looking, now, and Raen saw their mother swap a few nods with other women around.

It wasn’t as busy as the market, but it felt… _heavier_. Raen wasn’t sure how else to describe it. They held tighter to Ael’s hand, tucking themselves into her side as everything grew quieter. Their stomach started to feel unsettled, not quite like they were going to throw up but not far away, and they saw that more and more people were looking towards them.

“It’s okay,” said Ael, leaning close again. Raen still jumped a little. “House Nicodamidae are already here. Since we’re here for them, we’re guests of honour.”

She said _guests of honour_ slightly… out of breath. Was that it? There was something about her voice that Raen didn’t understand, and they looked up at her with a frown.

For a moment, Ael gave them a smile, softening her features. “We’ll be at the front,” she said, then straightened up and put back on her solemn Outdoors Face again.

She had laughed, sounding delighted, when Raen had called it Outdoors Face in front of her. The calm look that they always needed to wear when they were outside the family’s grounds, in the market or going to some celebration. Raen did not need to go outside all that much, not yet, but Ael was allowed outside more. They had seen her putting on the same calm, serious face before they had been told by the youths and adults of the family that they would need to do the same. It was important, Kei had explained, that other people knew as little as possible about what you were thinking. Keeping the calm face helped. So it had become Outdoors Face in Raen’s mind, and once again they put it on as they were allowed to the front of the crowd.

A faint band of darkfire, blood red, ran around the edge of the Sacrificial Hallow. Inside it, the stone was stained red, and the smell in the air was like that at the butcher but far worse. Raen’s eyes were drawn across the open stony ground to the centre, at the base of the final step of cliff, where the Priestesses of the Morrigan and their soldiers stood over the chained criminals.

Raen was not sure exactly _what_ they had done. But it had been a crime against House Nicodamidae, and they had been caught, and the Priestesses had said that they were strong enough to be dedicated to the Goddess.

One of the criminals gave another cry of pain; this time it was not muffled by the crowd, and Raen flinched back against Ael. Darkfire lit the Sacrificial Hallow clearly enough that they could see colour, the deep red of the Priestess’s robes, the brighter red of the kneeling criminals’ blood. One of them was silent, head bowed, bare dark skin against the lighter ground and pale chains. The other was sobbing, ugly sounds that carried across the empty ground and echoed off the cliff behind them.

Ael pulled Raen to stand in front of her, their feet almost at the line of darkfire but not quite touching it. She leaned down, and they felt her breath against her ear as she spoke quietly.

“Put on your Outdoors Face, Raen. These people have broken the laws of Menzoberranzan. Because they are drow, they are given the honour of dedication to the Goddess. But they still deserve to die.”

Some non-drow were dedicated to the Goddess as well, Raen knew that. The very strong ones. But all drow who were to be executed were dedicated to the Goddess, returned to Her that gave them life and gave them truth. Who did not lie, like the surface gods.

It was still the first time they had seen it. Raen concentrated hard on wearing their Outdoors Face, as Ael stood close behind them and dropped their hand in favour of putting her forearm across them instead. It felt a little bit like being held in place, and a little bit like just being held.

There were three priestesses, two standing further to the side, one right next to the two criminals. They all had complex hairstyles, gems and gold and arcane symbols woven in, and long rich robes over glints of armour. Ceremonial armour – Raen had heard that word and not understood it at first, until Aunt Echmedrin explained what it meant. As the central Priestess moved, Raen saw a little more of the metal, some sort of image cut into it, but the robes made it hard to see. She had a glittering, magic-laden whip at her hip, shining darkly.

She said something to the guards, with a toss of her head but words too quiet for Raen to hear, and two of the soldiers stepped forwards to take the arms of the sobbing criminal. They hauled the figure upright and dragged them forwards, drawing more screams and leaving a trail of fresh bloody smears on the ground. Raen tensed, and felt Ael’s arm tighten around them.

“ _Please_ ,” the criminal was saying, in Undercommon. Their voice was high and pained. Their hair had been cut short, just silver-white tufts against their scalp, and Raen could see big patches of skin that had been cut off.

That was important, in dedication to the Morrigan. The one to be dedicated had to experience as much pain as they could bear, to show their strength, to prove that they were worth giving to Her.

A shiver still ran through the crowd as the criminal screamed. It rang in Raen’s ears, painfully loud and painfully close, as the smell of blood and of something burning and sharp hit them. They drew back against Ael, and went to look away only for her to dig her nails into their side.

“Keep looking,” she hissed into their hair.

They made themselves look. Some of the criminal’s skin had been completely removed, while other bits were hanging in flaps that peeled away and then slapped back against them again. The flesh underneath was red and raw, like rothé meat, and Raen’s stomach turned over again. As they were forced to their knees, the criminal’s back was visible for a moment, torn into strips that barely looked like a body at all.

“They murdered a youth of our mother house,” said Ael. Raen almost couldn’t hear the words for a moment, but swallowed against the bitter taste in their throat. The words were still easier than watching the criminal. “If it had been a child, they would have been cut in the mithril webs of the Morrigan. But these ones will only feel her fangs.”

For a moment, the criminal looked up. Or at least, Raen thought that they did, because they… did not have much of a face left. Blood, and skin, and bits of white that _might_ have been teeth, but Raen did not even _know_ , and it felt like they looked right at Raen across the distance. They pressed harder back into Ael, and she tightened her hold on them.

“Keep the spider’s composure, Raindrop,” Ael murmured. Even the name, a name that only she used for them, did not help the feeling that they were about to be sick as the criminal made a low, wordless moaning sound. Raen could not even see where in their face it was coming from, everything too broken to be called a mouth. “Remember, the Goddess does this to those who have wronged her. Follow her path, and you have nothing to fear.”

They could no longer look _away_. The two soldiers pulled the figure between them to their feet, dark blood and pale pus trickling down their legs.

“I will never let them take you, Raindrop,” said Ael.

The tallest of the three Priestesses, robes of shimmering Gee'aantu died in red and infrared and embroidered with webs and spiders of all sizes, walked forwards to stand over the criminal. Raen could see her armour, the ceremonial armour, clearly; it had an image of the Morrigan, blade in one hand and severed head of Her enemy in the other, across the breastplate. They did not need to look closer to know what the rest of the image would be: the battlefield strewn with bodies, the bloodied river, the crows and spiders feasting on the dead. It was the most common way the Goddess was shown, and even their family’s shrine had a small statue against a painted backdrop.

“ _Nortyrkys of House Abiskoa_ ,” said the Priestess in Drow. Her voice was louder, with magic, and boomed across the Hallow. Raen clenched their teeth and their stomach, feeling more than ever like they were going to be sick. “ _Before the infallible eyes of the Goddess, the Exalted Morrigan, the Bloody-Handed One, She Who Thrives on Agony, you have been found guilty of the killing of Ysan, youth of House Nicodamidae. In Her name and Her eyes will you be punished. May your pain please her, may your death repay her, may your soul empower her._ ”

One of the other Priestesses stepped forwards and chanted in some guttural language that Raen thought might be Infernal. They had heard it before, but only the Priestesses ever spoke it. She flourished with one hand, and reddish light flared around it; the criminal’s scream cut off and they were held in place, upright, head thrown back to stare at the darkfire-speckled sky above.

That was one of the spells they could cast, after all. Raen shivered slightly, until Ael hummed behind them and they caught themselves again.

The highest of the Priestesses drew from her robes a shining black blade shaped like a spider’s fang. Perhaps it _was_ a fang; Raen did not know. Perhaps Ael would, or Kei or Nya. Something glistened on the end of it, clear as water but it would not be, would be something far worse.

The Priestess plunged her knife into the criminal’s chest. Caught in the red fire, they could not move, could not even scream, but Raen could see their muscles tearing and bleeding in the open patches of their skin. Raen’s heart raced, chest hurting until it felt difficult to breathe.

It was like they could still hear the screaming, even though it had stopped by now.

Then the criminal… stopped. Raen wasn’t quite sure how else to say it; blood was still running, and the red magic around them seemed to hold them in the same position. But their muscles stopped twitching, their chest fell still, and they… stopped. Even the torn-up mess of their face seemed to fall still, slack.

The second criminal was silent as they were bought up beside the first; they looked straight ahead, not at the body beside them still held within magic as its blood drained out across the stone. The third Priestess locked them into her own magic to hold them still. And then it was still like there was screaming ringing in Raen’s ears as the Priestess repeated her words, her verdict, and kill the second criminal as she had the first.

Once they were both dead, the bodies were raised up onto the cliff and pinned in place with bolts of magic, fresh red blood flowing over brown-black stains as webs held them in place. They would be left there until they began to decay, and then fed to the sacred Gee'aantu spiders in turn, their bodies feeding the chosen of the Goddess as their souls fed Her.

The crowds began to disperse, and Raen heard and saw them shifting and thinning, but they did not want to leave Ael’s hold. She kept her arm around them, although she turned them both towards where their mother was talking to one of the women of House Nicodamidae. They spoke quietly, with expressions more serious than the careful blank look of Outdoor Faces, and briefly touched hands in what even Raen knew was a show of trust.

When the lady of House Nicodamidae gestured towards Ael and Raen, Raen realised that they could still only really hear their heart in their ears, and taste something bitter at the back of their throat. Ael nudged them forwards, slipping her arm away from their chest again but, at least, taking their hand.

“My youngest,” their mother was saying. There was a little bit of pride in her voice, Raen realised. They swallowed and concentrated on her words. “Mother Lyasytra, may I present to you – Ael;” Raen felt Ael bow her head; “and Raen.” They did the same, keeping their eyes at Mother Lyasytra’s waist.

“I am delighted to meet you both,” said Mother Lyasytra. “We are of a blood, after all. Your Revered Matron Mother Dumaesa Eresidae is daughter of my grandmother’s sister.”

Normally, Raen would have been able to follow the lines in their head with ease, but their chest was still hurting. They focused on the crest on Mother Lyasytra’s belt, the blade across the subtle patterning of moss beneath.

“It is an honour, Mother Lyasytra,” said Ael. Her voice was warm enough that even Raen felt a little bit soothed by hearing it. “I am sorry that it is under such circumstances. You must excuse my sibling;” she squeezed Raen’s hand, and Raen wanted to make themselves look further up but could still hear screaming in their ears and thought that they might actually faint if they tried. “It is their first time at the Sacrificial Hallow.”

“Very well-spoken,” said Mother Lyasytra, and the shift of her body made Raen fairly sure she was speaking to their mother again. “Have they three turns of the web already?”

“Two, this year,” their own mother replied. That hint of pride again. Raen was sure that Ael would hear it as well, and knew that she enjoyed it. “But I am honoured you think them so advanced.”

A duergar, head shaved but allowed to keep his beard, and wearing clothes that also had the House Nicodamidae crest on them, hurried forwards and bowed to Mother Lyasytra. She and Raen’s mother exchanged low murmurs, then Raen felt themselves pulled away again by Ael and followed, keeping their eyes down and concentrating on their steps.

When they got back, once they were out of sight even of the rest of their own family, Ael swept them close and they clung to her for a while until the fit of cold and shivering passed. They weren’t even sure why it happened, the air was as warm and comfortable as ever, but it did not stop until the screaming had stopped ringing in their ears.

Ael pressed a kiss to their temple, and they could smell her perfume clinging to them as well. It smelled like safety. “You did well, Raen,” she said. “Mother will tell you the same, I am sure of it.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, then swallowed and managed to find something of their voice. “The – the dagger,” they said, muffled against Ael’s shoulder. She murmured in recognition. “Is it a real spider fang?”

“It is carved from the finest obsidian,” she said. Raen held on to the words as if they might hold more explanations within them. “It carries the poison the Priestesses call the Goddess’s Tears straight to the heart, as her fangs strike true.”

Raen nodded. At least… at least that was one thing that could be answered. “Thank you,” they said.

She held them a little longer, all the same.


End file.
